


knock the ice from my bones

by stribird (timidGoddess)



Category: Batman - All Media Types
Genre: Alpha Jason Todd, Alpha/Beta/Omega Dynamics, Alternate Universe - Fantasy, Alternate Universe - Royalty, Arranged Marriage, Courtship, Dick Grayson in Denial, Dick Grayson's Unrelenting Stubbornness, Engagement, Full Shift Werewolves, Human/Monster Society, Illustrations, Jason Todd is an Al Ghul, M/M, Mutual Pining, Non-Traditional Alpha/Beta/Omega Dynamics, Omega Dick Grayson, POV Third Person Limited, Pack Dynamics, Pack Politics, Political Alliances, Resolved Sexual Tension, Sexual Content, Slow Build, Soulmate-Identifying Marks, Strangers to Lovers, True Mates, Werewolf Courting, Werewolf Culture, Werewolf Politics, Werewolf Worldbuilding, Wooing, there is so much wolf mythos sorry in advanace
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-27
Updated: 2020-08-27
Packaged: 2021-03-06 16:54:31
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 36,216
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26022244
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/timidGoddess/pseuds/stribird
Summary: Richard Grayson Wayne hasn't felt warm since his parents fell and he was taken in as a prince of Gotham.As heir to the throne and the kingdom's most prized omega, Dick's spent his every waking breath fighting against everything that made Gotham's stagnant culture in regards to dynamics and shifters. However, between being shunted into a rushed political marriage to avoid an impending war and having his entire life tossed into turmoil as a result—Dick quickly finds that his future husband-to-be may be just the flame he's always been longing for.(It's a real shame how determined Prince Richard is to fight the draw of his mysterious betrothed every step of the way.)
Relationships: Background Superbat - Relationship, Dick Grayson/Jason Todd, Minor or Background Relationship(s)
Comments: 44
Kudos: 315
Collections: JayDick Summer Exchange 2020





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [SindyRa](https://archiveofourown.org/users/SindyRa/gifts).



> Who's ready for a good old fashioned 'werewolf hell world' au with some soulmates mixed in?  
> (I must apologize to my giftee who only marginally asked for this, I hope it's enjoyable either way) I must also thank the lovely [empires](https://archiveofourown.org/users/empires) for beta-ing this fic for me and helping me tighten this up into something I'm happy with ♥♥♥
> 
> Obligatory Songs I Played On Repeat For A Month And A Half™
> 
> Karmina - All the King's Horses  
> Coleman Hell - Witching Hour  
> Coleman Hell - Howling Moon  
> Of Monsters and Men - Wolves Without Teeth

☾●☽

☾●☽

_Dick opens his eyes to a beautiful dream._

_He’s in a forest he’s been before, the trees are high as the clouds and the silver moon seems to encompass the entirety of the night sky. Dick’s on his four legs and he feels more at home than he’s ever been in his skin—like this is exactly where he’s meant to be. The night air kisses his fur and the scent of nature all around him leaves him with a lingering sense of serenity; somehow, he knows he’s eons away from his homeland with its stifling, clinical, structures of marble and empty halls etched with silver. When he glances down, is a trail of wildflowers beneath his feet, they cut a lavender path through the underbrush, straight ahead. The longer Dick stares, the more muted the colors of the luscious woods around him seem to grow._

_Suddenly far off in the distance, he hears a great, bellowing howl._

_It catches his attention, ears swiveling in the direction of the call that set each and every one of the hairs on Dick’s person on end, he wants to find the source. So much so, that he’s hit with the sudden urge to follow the path of blossoms—to_ **_run_**.

_One leg in front of the other, followed by his hind legs, he hesitates, didn’t he have other responsibilities? He had a home once, didn’t he? Family. Dick tries to latch onto the thought, to ground himself, but it's as though the strands of thought that should weave neatly together, perfect as a quilting thread, have been coated in something sticky and oily. He can’t get a handle on them. Dick cocks his head and listens, eyes unblinkingly fixated on the horizon._

_Then, just like that, like a shock of lightning down his spine, the call repeats, and this time, Dick follows._

_He’s on the path for what feels like an eternity as the tranquil wood blurs and shifts around him until it’s turned from vibrant greens to faded monochromes and greys. Something deep inside of Dick’s more human consciousness pings alarm as the tall, primeval trees seemingly melt into a desert of sparkling gold and blistering heat. And yet, the faux path of wild blossoms remains the same._

_Any misgivings leave him when the cry reaches his ears once more, and Dick returns it with fervor: Where are you? Why aren’t you near me? I missed you._

_When he’s running he doesn’t get tired, when the moon sets and the sun rises the form of his wolf doesn’t pull uncomfortably under the offending rays. Dick is traversing a desert at high noon on his own four legs, the unforgiving heat of the sun is bearing down on his sleek, black coat, and yet he doesn’t feel the need to drink. Why would he need to ‘drink’ when he knows his oasis is at the end of this path of lilac, after all? There’s a hole in his chest that he’s never noticed before; burrowed deep within, painful and gaping in its intensity as though its edges had been gradually chipped away at over the years by some vindictive woodpecker. But somehow, someway, Dick_ **_knows_ ** _that whoever’s howl he’s been hearing will be able to make it whole again._

_It repeats, closer this time—Dick doesn’t understand how he knows, but it’s just one of those impossibilities of the universe, like the forest becoming a desert and an impossible cry that can be heard across borders._

_The sunsets again in what feels like a blink, then, like clockwork, the moon rises. Dick’s paws leave clouds of dust and bright red flower petals in their wake. The world tilts, shifts, he’s in a different wood now, filled with ancient oaks as opposed to pines. It’s strange because when Dick looks up at the trees the canopies never seem to lose their volume. He inclines his head but keeps moving._

_He’s slowed to a trot now, along the flower path, that’s slowly expanded with an alarming amount of iridescent wildflower. Then, just as he fears the volume of them filling the forest floor will force him to lose his path, the scenery blurs as if Dick blinked and suddenly, all the trees are gone, replaced by a wide-open meadow. There’s not a lick of green in his sight, only wild lilacs, as far as his eyes could see in the silver moonlight._

_Dick spies the backside of a wolf in the distance, a majestic form larger than his own even from a distance, more built, borderline bulky, with a map of scars no doubt from past battles both won and lost. He’s never seen fur the color of freshly fallen snow before, a part of Dick is somehow sure that if he were to bury his human fingers in it the coat would be warm, hefty, and perfect to the touch._

_He hears the howl once more from the form of the white wolf, its head tilted back to the mood. This time the howl is close enough to resonate all the way down to Dick’s very bones, his heart claws at his ribcage in relief as the wolf begins to turn. There’s a glimpse of piercing irises that remind Dick of the rich green seafoam of Gotham’s bordering seas just as their gazes meet—  
  
_

☾

  
Richard wakes in his bed chambers with a start. 

Dawn is breaking, rolling over his room with rays of warmth and light; he already knows only the unpleasant sight of Gotham’s looming cityscape of spires and sharp, gothic architecture will greet him if he wanders out onto his terrace to bask in the early morning air. He can’t muster up the urge in him to bother with a sight he’s long grown accustomed to over the years he’s spent in service of his kingdom, not today. Not after _that_ dream. 

Swallowing thickly, Dick tosses a haphazard arm over his eyes, drawing in a measured breath as he focuses on unwinding the muscles in his hamstrings and shaking off the unease rattling his spine.

“... Not again.”   
  


☾  
  


Richard John Grayson has lived several lives: the first, was a traveling performer, the second as Gotham’s heir apparent entangled in Gotham’s high society’s restrictive thorns and vines, and finally the third—as a warrior.

His favorite was easily when life was simple and Dick was just an acrobat who traveled far and wide, tucked secure and safe between the warmth of his parents and the assuredness of the performance troupe they called ‘pack’— _home._ Not everyone in the troupe was a shifter, not like Dick and his Pops, but that was okay. Scenting everyone with extra care was every bit as fulfilling as the companionship a midnight run provided. 

It was all he could ask for, Pops’ designation didn’t matter to Mr. Haley’s and Ma had always loved to fly, it’s half the reason she broke away from her own nomadic caravan to court Pops as hers in the first place. 

Eight years of peace. Eight years traveling from city to city, of wide-open fields of green and running side by side with family. Then Gotham happened. Dick’s parents fell during a botched act and the earth kept on turning as though Dick hadn’t just lost two intrinsic pieces of _his_ world. The air in his lungs may as well have turned to permafrost stifled by Gotham’s frigid climate. He was numb, when they moved from that city, Samson—the troupe’s strong man—took care of him for a while.

Things weren’t the same, they never would be again, but Mister Haley and the troupe were the warmth and comfort he needed during Ma and Pops’ send-off. Dick had blamed his tears on the dust and the ash of the pyre. Everyone including him had agreed that Mary and John Grayson didn’t deserve to be buried in a city known for its rot and corruption. They were a pair of inseparable flames in the life they left behind, and thus it suited them just as well to burn out just the way they lived.

Gone forever were the days of _warmthpacksafety_ , there was only ice in Dick’s chest left behind in their wake, and just where did that leave him?

He remembers Mister Haley’s solid hand on his shoulder and their little patchwork family huddled around them—but despite the cold perpetuating him down to the marrow, Dick still had hope that they could surely warm him up.

(But fate, as Dick would soon find, has a nasty habit of throwing things at the wall just to spite him.)

A month later, the King of Gotham’s Royal Guard caught up with them in Metropolis. Their presence brought with it a foreboding in Dick’s gut that refused to subside. He’d clung to Samson’s large hand as the man stood in front of him and Mister Haley’s face grew dark, reading the parchment that was offered by the envoy.

The anxiety only worsened, when King of Gotham’s personal knight knelt before him for the first time and referred to him as ‘Crown Prince’.

There are always moments in one’s life that a person can look back on and say, ‘There it was, that was my crossroads’. Dick Grayson never had a crossroads moment, it was more as though, in that moment, Fate had broken and molded his destiny to suit her own whims and told him there was only one path forward—one he ought to follow as a dutiful son. 

It really was too bad that Dick had never been the type to follow directions.

☾

The grandfather clock in the corner of his chambers reads seven o’clock on the dot, as Dick easily swaps arms, bracing his splayed palm against the marble tile. A pool of sweat is starting, just where his nose meets the floor every time he stoops down—he’s been going since dawn. His muscles have been screaming at him for the past forty minutes or so, he hasn't been able to bring himself to go back to sleep.

The dripping salt on his brow stings his eyes, but Dick can’t bring himself to close them for longer than a blink either—after all, if he closes them for too long he knows from experience that all he’ll see is a rich coat of white fur and burning irises the color of green fire and glistening emeralds.

_(He almost loses focus and drifts at the mere thought of the recurring dream he’s been nursing over the past several seasons, of the stunning white wolf with too many scars to count from a distance and the equally breathtaking meadow of glowing lilac wildflowers.)_

Dick knows he should take a break—his shoulder still wasn’t quite recovered from when he pulled it less than a fortnight ago during a sparring match with Donna. But again, the dream had made him _antsy_ , and he wasn’t in the right mindset to work out all that nervous energy at the banquet table. The thought of joining Bruce for breakfast alone makes his brain want to skitter up walls in ways Dick can’t even begin to comprehend. Timmy wouldn’t even be there as a buffer, he was busy attending a summit meeting with Clark in Metropolis.

Conversations with Bruce one-on-one these days and every single one after Dick’s presentation always felt wrong, somehow, uncomfortable and out of place, as though there was a constant pressure weighed on Dick’s lungs. His subtle nudging towards marrying his first heir off has only grown in frequency over the escalating months with Lex Luthor's forces encroaching upon Gotham’s borders and the League's increasingly aggressive tactics for trading rights in the capital.

A part of him wishes for the days when he’d climb Clark like an excitable squirrel while the king's consort would just smile in amusement and fondly refer to him as ‘pup’. He misses being comfortable going to Bruce about his troubles and burying his face in his adoptive father’s fur when the moon was high and the nightmares were too much.

Not for the first time, Dick wishes he’d never presented as an omega.

He’s violently ripped from his thoughts, then, when he hears a gentle wrapping against the door to his master bedroom. Dick hops to his feet in a single motion, stretching out his arms over his head with a wince as he makes his way over to the oak dual doors, he cracks them open, using one of his nightshirts to wipe the lingering sweat from his brow.  
  


“Oh. Hey, Alfred.”  
  


Standing there is a familiar face with a _very_ disapproving mustache and a deep frown etched into aged, wrinkled features. Dick can’t help wincing.

The head butler and his omega senior adjusts his cufflinks, arching a fine, grayed eyebrow as he takes in Dick’s glowing, overworked form, “Morning’s greetings to you as well, Prince Richard. Getting a headstart on your warmups, I see. Though I must say—did the palace physician not tell you to stay off that shoulder for another week?” 

Dick rubs at the back of his neck, shrugging helplessly, “You know me, Alfie, it’s the only way I know how to start off the day!” And it’s not a lie, he’d have gone stir crazy a while ago without a way to work out his manic energy—really, Alfred should be grateful Dick had decided against using his door for pull-ups again. 

“Hmm,” that eyebrow raises exponentially higher as Alfred clicks his tongue, taps his foot against the tile, it makes Dick feel like a rambunctious nine year old again. Alfred has always had a way of seeing straight through him _and_ Bruce most days, (there was a reason why he’s always been considered ‘pack’ after all). 

Under that unimpressed stare, Dick colors and eventually bends, “... It was just a few one-handed push-ups, Alfie, no strain what’s so ever. I promise I wasn’t pushing myself—honest!” The judgemental silence stretches on for another few seconds, “... I, er, didn’t push myself that hard?” Dick has enough good grace to admit that he’s relieved when Alfred’s frown quirks into an amused half-smile. Dick is struck with the utterly sinking feeling that he’s just been played.

“Very well, Young Master. I do applaud you for being honest.”

Dick crinkles his nose, “I’m always honest.”

Alfred’s eyes dance as he reaches up a calloused hand to ruffle Dick’s sweat caked hair, “Yes, yes, I know lad—please get washed up before breakfast this time. His Majesty has been waiting for a time, I fear if he waits for any longer he may take more… drastic measures to win your favor.”

He must make a face because the older man’s smile breaks into a series of stifled chuckles, _“Goodness._ You’d think I just asked you to to leap into a den of lions.” The guttural reaction wasn’t intentional, really, Bruce could just be... intense. This was doubly true especially when he wanted for something, and, well, what Bruce wanted whether through fire or by brimstone—by the might of Hati and the diligence of Skoll—Bruce got.  
  


(Take Clark as a case study for instance—Clark had been a usurped monarch of Metropolis, doomed to be Luthor’s chosen consort, before Bruce had snapped him up in his maw and warred Luther into submission back in his far more violate youth, after all.)   
  


And right now? Bruce Wayne wanted to protect his kingdom by settling blood grudges and disputes in the most peaceful way possible—by joining packs with the League of Shadows. To Dick’s knowledge, there'd been just one attempt to cross the waters in the past, back before Bruce and Clark had bonded, and said 'deal' had fallen through straight away for reasons Bruce still refuses to disclose. So, Dick doesn’t exactly have high hopes for his chances of being wed to a stranger from a distant land across several deserts.

It leaves a bad taste in Dick’s mouth, having all his work to be crowned king go to waste over something as demeaning as a _political marriage_ like he was an exchangeable good, a nicely wrapped gift to be presented for as flimsy a sentiment as ‘peace’. 

“Young Prince, do refrain from twisting your nightshirt so violently, the silk is very fine and expensive. I implore you to please value your possessions even if _you_ won’t be the one disposing of them afterward.” Dick stops short at Alfred’s words, he glances down and realizes that indeed he’s been twisting the poor, sweaty fabric in his hands to a straining point. His cheeks color. 

“Sorry, Alf.”

There’s that fond smile again, “Chin up, my boy, say nothing of the sort. I’ll be waiting outside while you wash up.” His eyes glint as he eyes Dick up and down, “I will also be escorting you to the banquet hall _personally_ this time, so you do not find yourself ‘lost’ in the castle knights’ dining shall like the last five occasions.”

Dick dunks his head, nodding sheepishly, “Of course, Alfred, I’ll be right out.”

☾

Breakfast is both tense and suspiciously refreshing.  
  


Tense, because Dick knows what’s coming and he can feel Bruce’s eyes dissecting him from the inside out. Refreshing because Dick has managed to get through almost all of his eggs in blissful, blissful silence with nary a disruption aside from idle chatter about Dick’s Knightley corps and general social policies regarding the surrounding countryside outside of the citadel. To Bruce’s credit, he’d shown more self-restraint than seen previously, Dick may have been more impressed if he weren’t so pissed about Bruce’s increased insistence about him taking on a partner recently.

At a lull in the conversation, the king finally sets down his fork heaving out a heavy sigh,“... Luther’s troops are closing in on our borders, he seems to be amassing power in numbers as well as an inordinate amount of ‘blessed’ silver.” Dick stills, face going deceptively blank as he frowns at the news, he pushes his plate away. It’s worrying—with Gotham’s high population of shifters in proportion to the rest of the continent. The citizens and smaller villages would be in danger if conditions continued as they were. 

Dick chews his lip as he taps his salad fork against the nearly cleaned plate, all that’s left is half of a well-seasoned Bratwurst and a few stray potatoes he hadn’t gotten to yet. “Have you begun the process of evacuating the citizens near the borders, yet?” His brows furrow, “How is he amassing so many forces? I thought Metropolis’s military might _weakened_ after the departure of the prodigal Crown Prince.” Bruce runs his fingers through slicked back hair, expression souring—the lack of an answer is even more concerning, because B is hardly _ever_ at a loss for words even at the worst of times. And in that moment, seeing his defeated shoulders and the way he’s sprawled back in his chair at the head of the banquet table as he lets out a second world-weary sigh? He looks every inch his age. 

It unsettles Dick more than he’s willing to admit. 

“I’ve begun the evacuation process, but Luthor’s numbers have been growing exponentially over the past few seasons.” 

“But you still haven’t given me the _how_.” 

“Simple,” He witnesses how Bruce hesitates as though weighing all the pros and cons of telling Dick the full truth in that arrogant brain of his, it only leaves him _more_ frustrated than before. “... Outsourced muscle, Richard, he’s been hiring large numbers of mercenaries to make up for the loss of favor in Metropolis.”  
  


_Clark was going to lose it.  
  
_

Dick can’t help clicking his tongue distastefully at the thought of such a man whittling away at the Kents’ family treasury, “That’s just... _”_ A dark look passes over Bruce’s features, he staples his fingers against the blackwood of the banquet table, even from several seats away, Dick can see the protective anger rolling off of him in waves. Absently Dick fiddles and twirls the fork between his fingers, “... Will Clark and Timmy really be okay with tensions riding so high? They went to Metropolis to negotiate one more time, didn’t they?” Bruce grunts, pushing his eggs around mindlessly on his plate. 

“Clark is with Tim, and they’ll be at a summit with representatives of other kingdoms from across the continent. Luthor isn’t fool enough to start anything where his competitors might see. He’s too prideful to jeopardize his image with the other royals—” Bruce scoffs from under his breath, expression rueful as he leans back in his chair, “Remember, _he’s_ the ‘good guy’.”

Dick’s stomach twists into knots as he glances away, bile lingering in the back of his throat, “... Is he still ‘good’ if he wants to blatantly cripple our trade routes and seize our territory in the most public way possible, like the rat he is? How could anyone call someone like him ‘virtuous’?”

The king’s expression reminds Dick of a storm cloud when he leans forward, perching his chin on a palm, menace rolling off his shoulders, his voice kept carefully blank. “The term’s relative. I’m more concerned over the fact that he is also amassing the anti-shifter factions in _addition_ to the enchanted silver I mentioned.” 

Dick stiffens, rage building all over again, “And you mean to tell me none of the other nations are _doing anything_ about it? Come on Bruce, this _has_ to be a violation of the ceasefire agreement. _”_

Then those ice-filled eyes go to rest again, and Bruce exhales warily in a way that may as well blow the wind right out of Dick’s sails. So much so that he reels back, a distinct chill going through him. “Gotham has the highest population of shifters on the Northern seaboard, Richard. We have the fairest laws in terms of standards between shifters of lupine origins and non-shifters, which make us an attractive immigration point. Gotham is ruled by a lupine _king,_ ” he starts ticking off points on his fingers, “We have the highest amount wooded areas, good employment, we’re a nation with a large treasury with how old we are in comparison to the others on the continent, direct policies and programs to improve the poors’ quality of life, thus strengthening our military might, a direct contact with Atlantis—”

The unexpected jab catches him off guard, “Atlantis allying with us has nothing to do with Garth, it’s a mutually beneficial friendship pact that,”

“... Is purely based on the exchange of information.” Bruce finishes evenly, “Knowledge of magic for knowledge of medicine. Which you and Ambassador Garth pushed through under the unspoken condition that Atlantians are not beholden to go to war.” Dick falls silent, bothering his lip. “But their support, even indirectly, speaks volumes.”

Bruce frowns, “Power _frightens_ people, Dick, especially in the hands of people like us.”

The sudden use of his names leaves him flinching on reflex, Dick bows his head, squeezing his eyes shut tight, “... Because they see us as below them.” The words feel somber on his lips because the truth of them burns like hot coals under his bare feet, Dick remembers when he was traveling with his caravan, recalls the difference between Gotham and all the other kingdoms along with how they treated their shifters. At worst lupines were second class citizens, at best they were poor and destitute, forced to work odd jobs to make ends meet and live another day. (Dick didn’t like to ponder about ‘worse’, some of the shows he’s witnessed in other kingdoms for ‘entertainment’ involving shifters when accompanying Bruce to summits still made him shudder to remember.)

One could say Dick’s lot in life had been lucky, in a way, in comparison to the others he’s seen. 

He snaps back from his thoughts just as Bruce continues on his tirade, expression already far more grim than Dick remembers it being at the start of the conversation, “ _Technically,_ Luther has done nothing that violates the laws of the land, aside from ‘accidentally’ allow his armies to dip into our borders during what he refers to as ‘routine training exercises’.”And that’s how Luther always plays his cards, isn’t it? Close to his chest, like a snake in the grass with poison leaking from his rotting fangs.  
  


_Fuck politics, seriously.  
  
_

Dick works his jaw, mind wandering to all the fringe villages on their borders, and the people that will be affected and misplaced the most by impending war. People like merchants, farmers, nomadic troupes like Dick’s former family, that pass through Gotham as a respite of sorts for their shifter performers— “... So the mindset is that if it’s not happening to _them_ then it’s out of their hands if I’ve got that right?” 

Bruce nods once falling silent, Dick can only rub at his temples, he can already feel a migraine coming on, it’s been decades since Gotham’s gone to war with anything other than itself and its various violate noble houses and factions. It’d been hell getting Gotham united under one king after the kingdom had fallen and consequently been fractured under the regency of Cobblepot before the heir came of age. With all the bad blood Bruce had to mend whilst stilling the bitter crone’s rebellion after he took on his second heir, the borders had only just reopened. Gotham honestly couldn’t afford another war with the people’s spirits still waning so low and the lingering unease perpetuating the kingdom's frigid air, even after two years of tentative peace. 

_  
He’d been right. He did feel a migraine coming on._

  
Dick wets his lips, narrowing his eyes in thought, “I’ve-I’ve got friends in other kingdoms, I can get us some allies, maybe if I send out some letters…” But the sight of the look in Bruce’s eyes when he glances up stops him cold in his tracks. His voice dies. The silence seems to go on forever as Dick warily searches B’s stony demeanor for answers. 

“I already have a solution, there’s no need to go through the motions.”

Dick inclines his head, heart seeming to try its damnedest to climb its way out of his throat, “What do you mean, B.” It’s not a question, it’s more like an accusation as slowly, gradually, his hackles raise.

“...I’m going to need you to give up your sword, Richard. For the good of Gotham.”  
  


_Give up your sword.  
  
_

_Four words_ —the numbness hits before the anger, and somehow that hurts more. He stares at Bruce, uncomprehending for a long time, as the walls of the wide-open space of the dining hall just seem to close further in on him. Dick’s lips uptick in a somewhat disbelieving scoff as he leans on the table for something, _anything_ that can serve as some semblance of support.

Gods knew he sure wasn’t getting anything of the sort from his father-figure.

“... Excuse me?” His voice is even, almost unnervingly level, even to his own ears. And it’s like all the buzzing emotions in his brain hop-skip right over denial and straight into fury as Dick clenches and unclenches his fists against the table cloth. He’s not sure if he’s still smiling or not. He might be. His lips feel as though they’re pulled tight. He knows now, why Bruce had chosen breakfast to break the news to him, if he’d mentioned it when the moon was high, Dick just may have ripped his throat out for such a bold pack order. It takes every last fiber of his being to stifle the outraged fire burning through his throat, his very lungs, to silence the thundering in his ears. So, Dick just takes it all in, draws a deep breath, and smiles tight as a taut bowstring.  
  


“If that’s supposed to be a joke, B—I’m not laughing.”   
  


Bruce’s scent spikes in something close to irritation then, Dick doesn’t even blink. His pack head’s pheromones are so familiar at this point they roll off his back just the way water might these days. “I’m far from joking Richard, this is not a discussion; this isn’t just about solving a blood feud anymore. _Lives_ are in the balance, people are going to die. _Our people._ ”

And Dick bristles, of course, he does, because how dare Bruce minimize his loyalty to Gotham and her people? The implication that Dick somehow cares _less_ because he doesn’t want to be given away like some prize burns worse than the years he spent training his body to be everything a self-respecting omega in a position of nobility _wasn’t_. He’d studied his ass off to succeed the kingdom as Bruce’s chosen heir, clawed his way to the top of the knights’ ranks from the ground up at the age of fourteen—Dick slams his fist on the table again, eyes flaring with renewed fire, there’s a guttural growl starting in the back of his throat.

“You are _not_ giving me away to a foreign marriage like some common _bargaining piece_ , Bruce. I’ve done everything right, from building my reputation, to leading campaigns, training our knights,” he inhales, drawing in a breath, “I’ve implemented some of our best policies; _I’m a consultant in the war room—”  
  
_

“—And you’re also an omega, with a _duty_ to your pack.”

The words hit not unlike a blow to the solar plexus, a fine tremor starts through his arms as his face heats in bubbling fury. His incisors dig deep into his bottom lip until sharply, the taste of copper soon floods his mouth. Because Bruce had let an undertone of alpha bass into his voice with that statement. And Dick’s never hated him more than in this moment, with a feeling of humiliation creeping up his spine as the threatening rumble in his chest is abruptly cut off, easy as snuffing out a candle’s flame.

_Without his permission.  
  
_

If there weren’t a table between them, Dick thinks he may have punched him.   
  


“Go to hell.” Dick stiffly replies the barest hint of a snarl coloring his tone stronger, _defiant._ It’s thicker now, more pronounced than his human vocal cords are willing to allow. If he tries to speak now, Dick knows, instinctively, all that’ll leave him are endless expletives and insults geared towards his current monarch and father-figure. This was one of those _unforgivable_ orders, the type of order Bruce promised he’d never ever give, the one thing he’d said he’d allow Dick to choose for his own other than his knight and guard. “—You don’t get to pull that on me, Bruce. Not with this, _never_ with this.”

His pack alpha hesitates for a fraction of a second, before continuing on as if Dick hadn’t spoken, “... Again, you are the only candidate that’s acceptable for the suitor Ra’s is willing to give.”

Desperation bubbles in Dick’s gut, mixed along with his ever-mounting anger and a distinct sense of hopelessness “I thought they didn’t _want_ to tie themselves to us after we disrespected them in the past,”

“Circumstances have changed with Luthor’s behavior, they are willing to make amends.” Bruce says, stoic and unyielding, “... Listen, Richard _—Dick—_ I know how this looks, and I know you won’t believe what I tell you. To you, this must feel like the greatest possible betrayal I could force onto you. But please, please understand, I’ve exhausted all of the options I have.”  
  


Dick bows his head once more, fingers clenching and unclenching, his throat is parched. “There _has_ to be another way,”  
  


And B meets his eyes squarely, stopping him short, “War is _not_ an option. You are the Crown Prince of Gotham—Richard Grayson Wayne, and you have a duty to this state and her citizens, all counting on _you._ Timothy is not yet of age and you are betrothed to no one despite this being your twenty-seventh summer.” Dick flinches at the reproaching tone, squeezing his eyes shut tight to breakaway from Bruce’s piercing gaze as he tries and fails to regain his equilibrium. _Manipulative sonuva—_

“The League of Shadows has the second largest population of shifters on the continent. Joining their forces with our own would boost Gotham’s influence greatly and place further pressure on the other kingdoms to hold Luthor accountable.”

 _He’s not wrong_ , a small voice agrees in the back of Dick’s subconscious, _this is the only peaceful way to intimidate Luthor into backing off._

“There _is_ no other way.”

  
(His own muted agreement feels like a betrayal so deeply personal, Dick can’t even blame it all on Bruce this time around.)  
  


☾

Sometimes Dick misses being a circus brat, things were simpler in the circus. The people he knew and loved didn’t expect much of anything from him aside from flying and falling, his role was comfortable, the faces were familiar because each and every person there had held him at least once from the day he was born. He and Pops weren’t the only shifters, there was Rakshata, the fortune teller from the East—League territory—with dark, weathered hands and the most beautiful rustic fur peppered in grays. There was Frank, large and hulking with soft fur the color of ash, almost mirroring his appearance when doing his metalwork, then Alyssa with her blonde coat and smiling eyes, and finally, Samson, even larger than Frank, and gentle as a dove… There was no shortage of love when Dick was growing up, not in Haley’s troupe.

Compared to being cuddled up safe and warm in Pop’s fur or Ma’s patchwork blankets in their covered wagon, Gotham was unforgiving with its year-round chill and unbearably long winters. It hadn’t taken shape as anything close to a safe haven when Dick was a child. —Bruce was still railing against his own council then as the first and only rightful heir to the crown, as the only child born shifter in the Wayne royal line in seven generations. It was unheard of, unforeseen with the Kanes having given up their right to rule decades before, and Thomas and Martha Wayne never having any other children aside from Bruce and what would've been his older twin brother, born still without exhaling a single breath. 

_How uncouth it was, for a shifter to become Gotham’s sovereign._ Dick still remembers the whispers clear as a bell from when he was a boy, clinging to Bruce’s large hand at the mandatory balls. 

The nasty rumors rolled off of Bruce’s shoulders meanwhile, like the way a waterfall might from a cliff face, as a stone wall he stayed steady. But in private, he would bow to the weight of their onslaught. Dick knew this because his ears had always been keen, and he sometimes heard Bruce in his late-mother’s rose garden, whispering to no one, begging for council. Yet Bruce had never been the type to break or bend for anything or anyone. 

—That is until an alpha named Clark Joseph Kent came along, and even then, Clark had to fight tooth and nail most days. 

Their relationship was envious, a one-in-a-million alpha soul pair, a perfect balance. Clark was Bruce’s cooling oasis, Bruce was Clark’s blazing hearth, his home. —Dick has seen them hunt together. Clark didn’t shift, but he could still read every single one of his mate’s tells, even when the moon was high and Bruce was on four legs instead of two. ( _Dick had wanted someone like that for himself one day_ _.)_ In the end, the real joke was on the council, because who could’ve guessed when pressed for a ‘proper’ heir Bruce Wayne would go out of his way to untangle his ugly, gnarled family tree to find where ‘Wayne’ and ‘lupine blood’ intersect in the royal archives? Who could’ve known Bruce’s soulbond would sing for another Alpha and he would choose to pick two distantly related pups as his heirs?

So, yes, somedays Dick misses the simplicity of the circus; he misses it in the abstract way someone might miss their childhood home, he probably always will. However, becoming Bruce Wayne’s son and a prince of Gotham isn’t something he’s ever _truly_ regretted, not even during their worst blowout fights when Dick was a hot-headed teen, eager to run off and die in a civil war, for something as trivial as ‘proving his worth’. Because that’s what it’s always been about hasn’t it? ‘Proving’ himself to Bruce. Making sure everyone around him acknowledged him as is—a competent heir and leader, regardless of his dynamic. ( _But it was all in vain, wasn’t it? He sold you off anyway,_ whispers that tiny, traitorous little voice in back of his head, _you’re just a pretty bargaining chip. He was humoring you all these years.)_

Needless to say, the discussions of the morning had left Dick agitated. 

Upon bursting out of the banquet hall he hurries through the muted corridors of the royal palace with quickening strides, startling more than a few of the castle’s help and dutiful orderlies in his wake. He doesn’t realize how tightly he’s clenching his fists until he’s well outside of those cold, uninviting walls, traversing the bordering walkways of the inner courtyard as Gotham’s frigid air bites at his ears. —Dick takes a long moment and pauses his furious steps, leaning heavily against one of the stone pillars as he blinks back the frustrated water in his eyes.

_  
Breathe.  
  
_

His skin is crawling now, all he wants to do is take to the forests behind the palace and just _run_ on two legs or four, it hardly mattered at this point _._ He just wants to be able to take off just as he could in his dreams, run forever, and ever without the need for water or rest slowing him down—not even for destination or purpose. _He just wants to get away, he wants to hurry and wake up._ Dick swallows then, squeezing his eyes shut tight, before bodily pushing himself away from the pillar and making his way towards the side gates. 

Running wasn’t an option until the moon was full in a few nights’ time, therefore Dick would just have to find alternative avenues to work off his frustrations. 

☾

“Say… er, Captain, shouldn’t we do something to stop mister dark, pretty and vicious over there?”

“By all means, get between our pack head's fists and that straw training dummy, _Kyle._ Go on—I’ll wait.” 

“No way, _you’re_ his favorite, you do it.” 

“ _Donna’s_ his favorite, my face is still very punchable. And Rob’s downright mean in spars when he’s in a boorish mood sooo...” Pause. “Training dummy.” Dick grits his teeth against the distracting dialogue, tension building in his shoulders as he swings his leg in a wide arc, into the straw stock, audible cracking the wood its bound to, the man lets out a low, impressed whistle.

“I can _hear you,_ Sir Harper, watch those loose lips of yours.” He backs off with a heavy exhale, “I’ll rip them off you if you’re not careful.” 

Sharply he turns his head to find a very languid Roy Harper leaned against the walls of the surrounding colonnade, still dressed in a loose cotton nightshirt. (Not that he’d had the time to get fully dressed. _Dick’s_ the one who’d barged into the knight barracks mid-breakfast, a buzz with manic energy immediately after his confrontation with Bruce, after all.) 

Despite everything, something in Dick unwinds at the sight of that crooked smile.

“C’mon you don’t mean that, Robbie.”  
  


“I don’t _yet._ ”  
  


He and Roy had met during Dick’s eleventh spring, the year he’d begun presenting.

It wasn’t uncommon for pups to start seeking out a social pack outside of the family unit as early as single digits if socialized properly. However, Dick had always been a bit of a late bloomer, partially from being constantly on the go as a kid in a circus company with few children his age, partially due to the trauma of losing both his birth guardians at such an early stage. And well, above all else, Dick’s wolf was ungodly _picky_ when it came to people. Always had been.

Roy had been shipped to Gotham as a political bargaining chip in the middle of an intense trade disagreement with the neighboring landlocked kingdom of Star. The acting monarch, Oliver Queen having closed one of Gotham’s major trade points in a short-sighted attempt to turn a profit, depriving her citizens of the building materials necessary to heal from a particularly violent typhoon season. Bruce demanded compensation. Thus, Queen had reluctantly sent one of his distant relatives, adopted into the royal family before it was found there was a more closely related heir-apparent in the wings. _(A glorified hostage, assurance, someone expendable he could lose if Gotham’s new king that'd risen from the ashes of a mass coup was less than honorable.)_

Nonetheless, Dick had happily snapped up the fledgling alpha with the mannerisms of a distrustful street dog, and pulled him right along into Gotham’s moonlight as soon as he was able. He was clumsy and awkward, in his hurriedness at making the other boy his pack without proper process, but he did so in all the ways that counted. Under the watchful eyes of Fenrir and the Moon itself, they both slit their palms and mixed their blood, declaring themselves 'brothers'. Because if the world didn’t want Roy, well, Dick would have to claim him as a brother instead.

Bruce had been none too impressed about dealing with the fallout of a fully realized pack bond between two very insistent shifter children and the relentless pressure of Oliver Queen’s tenacity at his back. Dick was sure he’d be sporting silver at his temples by the end of it. Things worked out in the end, some way or another. Bruce always found a way—Roy became an indefinite honored guest and was granted a chance at knighthood, Dick’s wolf was sated with what it deemed a valuable new addition to a developing pack. And, well. ‘Pack’ always seemed to ease the chill on his skin that never seemed to leave.

“Hey now, no need to get bitchy. _You’re_ not exactly pleasant company when you’re this wound up, _your highness,”_ Dick huffs out a breath, kicks at the ground with the heel of his boots, “Who am I to make conversation with? The clouds? Your non-committal grunts, perhaps?”

“Dunno arrowhead, maybe if you were a better sparring partner, I’d get more enjoyment out of you than a stock of straw.” Roy rolls his eyes then; Kyle bites down a harsh snicker, before immediately taking a distinct interest skyward when the older alpha shoots him a sharp look. “Why the long face? It’s common knowledge I can pin you faster than a bound turkey—” Dick can’t help the sly smile that splits his lips as Roy scoffs and chucks his cloak at his sweat-soaked face. The amusement pulling at him is the only emotion other than rage Dick’s felt all morning, but then again, his chosen pack has always been good at pulling those things out of him, even during the worst of times. 

Somedays Dick preferred them to his actual family.   
  


“Hit a nerve?”  
  


Roy clicks his tongue, pushing away from the stone column, “Yeah, yeah, yuck it up. I take it you’re feeling better after beating up said bundle of straw?” And despite everything? Dick _does_ feel a little better, far better than he would’ve after a not-so-friendly spar, anyways. His lip twists to a side as he covers half his face up with the cloak, “Are you wound down enough to actually _talk_ about it now?”

Dick’s shoulders slump as he plops right down in the middle of dirt and sand, face still sour as he uses the maroon cotton to wipe the sweat from the back of his neck, “I’m sitting, but I’m not talking.”

That gets him a smug grin, “Untrue.”

“How so?”

“‘Cause, you’re already talking. Shall I get some wine to take the edge off?” Roy grins lazily, reaching out his hand to heft Dick off the ground by the elbow, unsettling dust him his wake, “Your scent s’all sour, I caught a whiff of it long before you burst into the mess hall in a tizzy earlier.”

(Dick doesn’t doubt it, Roy’s always had a sharp nose, he boasts about being able to scent everything down to the changing of the winds. )

“... It’s too early for wine. Get me some tea and you’ve got a deal.”

  
  


Somehow or another, he ends up back at Roy’s chambers, with Roy whistling an easy tune as he kicks closed his door, having indeed gone for tea, _Something to calm your nerves_. Or so he’d claimed. 

“Marry me so I’m spoken for,” Dick says, serious as a heart attack before the other can even take a seat.  
  
His packmate lets out a startled laugh, eyebrows rising to his hairline, “ _Absolutely not,_ we’d probably like, kill each other within the week.”

Dick falls back onto the cot, letting out a frustrated exhale through his nose, “.... Yeah,” he imagines mating with Roy and taking his bite; a shudder shoots down his spine as his stomach downright recoils. “Yeah, you’re way too loose and your jokes are unbearable, I’d _definitely_ kill you in a week.”

Roy arches up a brow, pinches the skin of his arm in retaliation, “Agreed with me a bit too quickly, don’t you think? I’m a _catch_ , the best archer in your squad—” 

“—I dunno, Harper. Sounds like a ploy to pull in sweet young things to me.”

“I’m comforting _you_ here, twinkle toes, remember that.”

He rolls his eyes, shaking the other man off. It’s always refreshing, bantering with his pack, away from all the formalities and special treatment that came with being Gotham’s prized omega, with being royalty. Sometimes Dick can’t help but feel envious of Roy, who gave up his claim to Starling’s throne and chose knightley nobility in a foreign nation as opposed to fighting Oliver on the matter. 

It’s been so long that Dick’s not even sure if being king is by choice, spite or obligation. Bruce had always been too driven and stubborn in his beliefs to bend the knee to a hurdle like a person’s dynamic—shifter or otherwise. Dick was an omega, but he wasn’t incapable, he wasn’t worth anything less than a person just because of Gotham’s archaic laws, his purpose wasn’t to stand around like a decorative ornament, he was a son of Bruce Wayne, the Crown Prince.  
  


(Or at least… that’s what he thought.)  
  


Dick’s mood quickly sours at the darkening thoughts as he rolls over on Roy’s bed, rubbing his face deep into the linens soaking up the comforting scent. Roy grips him by the collar with a hiss: “Hey, _hey_ stop that right now, I don’t want my bedsheets smelling like sad ‘mega, sad sack.”

“ _Donna_ would let me wallow.”

“No, she would not. She would kick your ass around the training grounds until you gave her a smile.”

“And yet you refuse to do me the same service? To get my mind off of being sold like a sack of dusty molding radishes in the markets, why do you hate me so?”

“That’s… an image.” His best friend hums, deep in thought, “You said it was for an alliance right? So I think it’s more like you being sold off like a bottle of a rich, red wine, or maybe a collection of rare gemstones?” Roy pokes him in the forehead as he sets down the tea tray, “Selling yourself a little bit short there, Robbie.”

Dick sighs, “Yeah, I guess. Same difference—I just… I know in my brain that this is important, that it’s for the greater good, Gotham’s long term prosperity and what not but I,”

“—You’re a chronic romantic who wants to marry for love?”

He sits up abruptly at the words, glaring down at his lap as he abuses his bottom lip with his incisors, “... So what if I do? Is _that_ so damn wrong? I’ve given everything to Gotham, I read all the texts on economics, I’ve spent years giving my everything to making this the kind of place where local street performers don’t sabotage traveling troupes out of spite, and helping Bruce establish this hellhole as a place where shifters can come for asylum against the rampant trafficking across the continent…” he’s panting hard by the end of the rant, hackles raised, “I didn’t _ask_ for this.”

“You kind of _did,”_ Roy interjects, “What were your words when we were teens? About ‘proving those stuck up bastards wrong’? “ Roy leans against the wall, absently sipping his tea. “You were born to lead, Dick. You love your people and, for better or for worse, Gotham counts as ‘your people’.”

And fuck. He’s right. Dick loves this city of spires and edges despite everything, with its dreary skies and unforgiving cold, with it's even tougher and colder residents. Something about Luther extending his creeping rule to this kingdom, _his_ kingdom, makes Dick’s skin crawl even worse than being sold off to the League as a peace offering. It makes him feel a possessive clench in his gut the way he feels when someone hurts one of his on the battlefield, the way he feels whenever some uppity noble attempts to poison Bruce and—

_—he’d die for this godforsaken citadel._

“I hate you so much.”

Roy’s lips quirk, “Get in line, pal. Everyone needs a little tough truth in their lives.” Dick slugs him none too lightly in the shoulder as the older man snorts a laugh, “Tell you what, if your arranged marriage partner’s a garbage alpha who doesn't know how to treat a pretty beau like you right—we’ll whip him into shape…. Or dispose of him quietly. You know.” Roy makes a crude twisting motion with both his fists like he’s wringing a wet cloth. “You just gotta give the word, boss.”

Despite himself, Dick can’t help the full-bellied laugh that comes resonating from deep in his chest, eyes crinkling at their edges as he meets Roy’s gaze, it feels like the first time he’s done so all day. “I can defend my own honor just _fine,_ Harper. I don’t need any help doing that.”

And his arrowhead looks smugger than all else as he shoots back a crooked grin, “Exactly. See? You’ll be just fine, you’ve fought _wars_ , think of this arranged marriage to a lunatic from across the Deserts of Lazarus as just another battle to be won,” Roy says and knocks Dick’s back encouragingly, “You’re strong, courageous and stubborn as fuck all, no one can take that away from you. I don’t know a single person who’s ever made you bend you haven’t found worthy, Rob.” Dick inclines his head.

“You know... that might just be the nicest thing you ever said to me.”

Roy shrugs and hands him the tea—it’s black, with several spoons of honey, Dick knows before he takes a sip by the familiar scent, “Getting soft on me?”

He snorts, eyes dancing, “Not in your life.”

☾

Dick’s been waking up crying.

The tears are always silent and wanting, with his chest feeling as though it's just been hollowed out with a rusty fork twice over. Whenever he opens his eyes to his empty room in the mornings he swears he should be able to look to his side and sink his fingers into deep, warm fur, the color of fallen snow. Even after he’s gotten the okay from the palace physician to use his shoulder more fully, it doesn’t do a thing to chip away at the buzz under Dick’s skin. 

He hadn’t been able to face Bruce in the following weeks after being given the ultimatum; he _can’t,_ not with his wolf lingering so close to the surface coupled with the dreams that increase in frequency as the night of the full moon creeps ever closer. By day he lingers near Roy and Wally in the training grounds—it’s better than stewing in his own anger.

“You know-” Dick’s fists are wrapped tight with gauze, he doesn't blink when he raises his forearms to block against the onslaught of quicksilver jabs as Wally West grins sly as a fox, "You should _really_ loosen up Dickster, stress causes wrinkles, and you’re sure not getting any younger.”

“Walls, I swear to god—”

“ _Yeah, yeah,_ curse me, curse my mother, heard it all before.” He accents the sentiment with an arching kick that almost rounds him in the jaw. 

Wallace West had stumbled into Dick’s little mismatched pack as the beta son of a famous merchant migrant from the plains of Keystone. It’d really only taken one look at the scrappy boy, with his sandy auburn hair almost a direct match for Roy’s, coupled with his unmatched speed as a wolf, faster than anyone Dick’s ever raced for him to make a choice. Oddly enough though, _Wally_ had claimed Dick as pack first—with that perpetual grin of mischief, and that straight forward gaze. 

If Roy was his eyes and Donna was his heart, then that made _Wally_ his legs; he wouldn’t trade them for anything.   
  


(Though, admittedly, Dick could still do without the excessive snark.)  
  


"How can I possibly relax with, Bruce-" he catches Wally's bare ankle with a firm grip of iron as his beta's eyes widen fractionally, "-treating me-" Dick swings with the momentum knocking the man off balance, " _-like I’m a stranger!_ " He grits his teeth and twists with all his might as he forces his sparring partner completely off his feet and into the dirt.

Roy lets out a low, impressed whistle from where he’s perched on a tree stump a few paces away, while Dick pants above his downed sparring partner with clenched fists. Carefully, he closes his eyes, tries to calm the more agitated visages of his wolf pacing close to the edges of his consciousness. _He was going to shift tonight. He could feel it under his very skin, clawing at his all too human bones._

"Should I write a eulogy for the deceased—'o woe to poor Wallace Rudolph West, we hardly knew ye,"

The ginger in question cracks open a baneful eye, chest heaving as he stays splayed out in the dirt, _"You're_ the alpha here don’t you types have absurd endurance or something, can't you tag in...?" That gets Wally an unsympathetic laugh. 

"No dice, Walls. I sparred with our pent up princeling at dawn, it's your turn."

Wally releases a long-suffering groan, "Oh, _c'mon,_ ”

“For the nth time, I can _hear you,_ Harper. I’m still very much capable of higher thought when the moon is waxing, wolf or not,” Dick cuts in, cracking his neck along with a full-body stretch.

The alpha’s lips quirk as he snorts, crossing his arms, “Not when you’re pissed enough to rip open a rattlers throat, pretty boy.” 

He twitches but doesn’t argue, the wrappings on his knuckles had come loose. Thankful for the distraction, Dick makes his way over to Roy’s stump and plops down in the dirt beside him, inhaling deeply, holding in his breath before releasing the air along with all of his frustrations. Walls stays sprawled out on the ground like a dried out frog, looking at him with unimpressed eyes.

“Yeesh, can’t you at least pretend to feel _a little_ tired?”

Dick blinks, it’s one of Wally’s weirder questions because Wally is one of the few people that his brain has to work overtime to best. “I don’t know what the complaints are about, you’ve got more stamina than me most days.”

The man’s face scrunches up, “I skipped lunch for this. Can’t spar on an empty stomach just because you’re brooding over the prospect of your future husband-to-be.”  
  
Dick starts to get up on shaky feet—not even looking, Roy puts a hand on his shoulder and guides him back down. “Walls, we’ve talked about this. _Mouth filter._ Watch it.”

“Sorry,” he mumbles, properly chastised.

Dick finishes wrapping his fists in silence, working his jaw, “Roy, one more spar. Dinner’s in a few hours and Alfred would be _very_ cross with me if I ruined the meal by starting another screaming match.” Green eyes spark to life in something close to amusement.

“Alright, but after this, you owe me some of that well-aged palace wine, alright? A bottle from the king’s _personal_ collection.”

“Deal.”

Sparring does nothing to quell the anger and the burning that licks at Dick’s skin, but it’s a distraction nonetheless, and Dick _needs_ these little distractions. Otherwise, he’d go mad. The exercise keeps his reflexes sharp, keeps him active—keeps his mind from circling back to the deep-set pains that hurt and linger. It reminds Dick that above all else, he is not weak.

  
  


(“You’ll all follow me… won’t you? When they take me far away?” he asks much later, words and heart uncertain.  
  


Roy’s eyes are laughing, when he gives his shoulder a playful shove that just seems to chip away at the ice-cold dread perpetuating Dick’s chest, “Always, Robin. You’re in our blood. Even Gillhead’ll find a way.”) 

☾

_This time the dream is different, instead of the forest, he’s in the field of lilacs. Dick glances around, still on four legs as he trots forward through the clearing, but he’s all alone this time._

_Something pained twists in his chest as he throws back his head and starts a mournful howl, pleading to the full moon, for just another glance—that’s_ **_all_ ** _he wants at that moment. Who would keep him warm if his sun had gone? Who would hunt with him under the moon’s silvery light?_

_He cries for a long time in that flower field._

Dick’s still sobbing when he wakes at dawn with blurry eyes, cheeks raw as he gets up for another day. The dreams are worsening. Maybe he’d try some of the palace doctor’s incense.

☾

It’s such a relief when Clark and Tim return from Metropolis Dick feels like he’s let out a month-long breath when he’s pulled into the solid arms of his secondary father figure. It’s hands down one of the best places to be in Dick’s humble opinion, carefully he returns the embrace of his teddy bear of a pack alpha allowing himself to be entrenched with the familiar scent of ginger and basil. _It rings warmth, safety,_ **_home._ **

“We must have worried you and Bruce, sorry about that, lad. No trouble, just Luther’s usual posturing. I got worried when you stopped sending letters.” 

Clark’s eyes crinkle at their edges and Dick feels all that anger, all that anxiety, everything that's been building inside of him for weeks? Just wash away. In that moment, it almost feels like everything’s going to be okay—it was one of the things Bruce had never quite managed, even when he did try in his clumsy, emotionally stunted sort of way. 

Dick smiles tightly, “Well, things got complicated on the homefront, I’m honestly hoping _you_ can smooth things over. I’m at my wits end here, Clark.” And Dick… gives himself a moment. Just buries his face in that broad chest for a little while longer until he notices Timmy poking out from behind Clark’s back curiously, posture straight-laced and at attention as his little brother visibly sniffs the air.

“... You smell-” the teen furrows his brow, lingering closer, Dick wonders where he got those nosey manners from, he doesn’t recall Tim _always_ being this rude, _“-off._ You’re upset, aren’t you.” (It’s not a question, but then, Tim doesn’t necessarily ask a lot of questions, they were more often assumptions.)

Dick pulls away sighing, even as he feels the beginnings of a weary smile breaking his face, “And hello to you too, little brother. I’ve been fine, thank you for asking.” Tim’s cheeks fill with heat, that straight posture wavering as he rubs the back of his neck, awkward as can be. He’s struck then, by how _young_ Tim looks then, he hasn’t even grown into his gangly limbs, hasn’t even passed his sixteenth summer.

_The thought of Tim getting married in his place has Dick’s stomach twisting in protective dismay—it's fit to leave him nauseous._

“Dick,” he starts when Tim inclines his head up at him with furrowed eyes, the kid gives his hands a soft squeeze that leaves him unwinding. “What happened?” It hasn’t even been an hour and Dick’s skin is abuzz with an innocent question. _Pathetic. Weak._

“I’m getting married.” 

He pauses, the bitter words are molasses on his tongue, the room is heady with tension when he sees Clark go still as a statue. It’s a subtle detail because the man is a brick wall of sorts, it’s in the slightest tensing of the heavy muscle that never quite _fit_ into Gotham’s conservative clothing, it's in the slight tightening of a square jawline. How those normally soft eyes go hard, icy like uncut sapphires when he wordlessly strides past the two and through the throne room's double doors.  
  


(For all he’s known him, Clark Kent has always been warm, and Dick’s can’t recall a time where his anger has ever been anything close to _cold_.)  
  


Tim tugs at him again, eyes wide, “To who?”

Dick shrugs, smiles ruefully as Tim hangs his head, “We’ll find out in a few weeks, now won’t we? Bruce said he’ll be arriving just in time for this year's Harvest Moon Festival,” granted the information was given in the middle of another screaming match last week during one of their Alfred-mandated meals together, “he’s marrying me off to one of the Al Ghuls’ heirs.”

That frown only deepens into a near pout, it makes Tim look at least several years younger; Dick feels himself soften, giving in to the urge to pull the younger omega into a side hug. “Now enough about me, tell me about your first summit in Metropolis little brother,” Tim bothers his lip, hesitating, undaunted, he reels him in close, scenting fine, soft hair affectionately, “I need to know—has Clark broken Luthor’s jaw, yet?”

Timmy finally cracks a smile, but his eyebrows still have that perpetual worried furrow to them. He submits to Dick’s scenting, going a little loose against his side, “Fine, you win, but we’re not done,” the teen huffs when Dick hooks an arm over his shoulders and all but manhandles him towards the gates.

“You’re spilling _everything_ about this after dinner, later.”

“We’ll see.” 

Dinner that night is tense—with Dick pushing around his salad on his plate while Tim hunches his shoulders and tries not to catch either of their pack alpha’s gazes. Clark is cold and silent as he cuts into the smoked beef prepared by the head chef. 

“... This is childish.”

“Waiting until I was away for a few months to marry off one of my most trusted confidants and commanders, I would argue is even more childish, _Bruce._ ” Dick winces when his pack alpha cuts right through the plate, the muscles in Clark’s forearms strung tight as he works his jaw. His nose stings with the hint of agitated alpha, and the sharp scent of spoiled ginger clashing with Bruce’s overwhelming smoke and wood in an unholy sour mix. Across the table, Tim grimaces and hides his nose in his sleeve.  
  


“I looked at all the scenarios,” there’s a note of hesitation in Bruce’s voice, “Luthor will keep provoking, we need more allies. This is the fastest way, we’re on a time crunch.”   
  


“You’re overreacting, Lex bides his time—he’s not going to strike _tomorrow,_ Sirius above,”   
  


_“I am doing what’s best for Gotham,”  
  
_

_“What about what’s best for your son, Bruce!?”  
  
_

Dick leaves about ten minutes in when Bruce steers the argument to Clark being too soft on Luther; the salad on his plate is mostly untouched as Tim scurries after him. All in all, it’s an uneventful night, besides, Dick’s throat probably _needed_ the break from railing against Bruce at every ‘family’ dinner this past week or so.

Tim keeps pace with him after, quiet, head bowed low—his brows are furrowed tightly, “... Are you leaving? After the festival?” Out of the corner of his eyes, he notices the younger wringing his hands in nervous habit. Dick lets out a heavy sigh, stopping his steps abruptly in the middle of the marble corridor, Tim bumps into his back, stumbling with a squawk before regaining his balance. 

“That depends on the League’s courting rituals, I’ve heard they’re fairly lengthy.”

Tim bothers his lips, “I read somewhere that courting with League tradition can take upwards of a full year.” 

“Hm,” Dick agrees, vaguely, “several seasons at minimum, on the foreign omega’s homeland if applicable.” He watches Tim’s shoulders unwind, with the confirmation that he wouldn’t be gone within the next month or three, the prospect of leaving his knights behind is still an intrinsic kind of terrifying Dick’s not sure he’s ready to face yet. 

The younger omega goes through a whole host of complicated expressions then-it’s almost impressive-until finally, Tim just exhales, reaching out for Dick’s limp hand, giving it a firm squeeze, “... I’m not ready for you to go.” _(Dick is reminded of a quiet noble pup with impassive eyes who flinched at loud noises and didn’t know how to smile. He’s reminded of letting that same pup grip the back of his coattails until he remembered how again.)_

“It’ll be okay,” Dick doesn’t hesitate to ruffle a head of fine dark hair, _I’ll keep you safe. I’ll protect you, protect everyone._ But instead of being reassured, Tim keeps that same troubled expression on his face.

(He’s nice enough not to mention it when Tim comes by his bedroom later that night, while he’s busy distracting himself with paperwork by candlelight. Dick can’t remember the last time Timmy climbed into bed with him, not since his sixth—no, maybe even his seventh year. 

So, he lets the teen crawl under his covers and curl up against his side without much fuss, all while he keeps stamping seals well into the night. They both run cold, but that’s alright. Dick always loves having company.)

☾

_That night when Dick opens his eyes he’s in a field of lilacs that seem to glow in the light of the silver moon, he’s on his back, breathing in the scents of the meadow and the wildflowers. In the distance there is a white wolf, There’s a slight feeling of vertigo that lingers at the edge of his vision when Dick stands on two legs instead of four._

_It’s the first time he’s been anything but his wolf in these dreams._

_His feet carry his unsteady body forward, closer and closer as more of that form comes into view, the wolf’s head is tilted back, up at the moon. The resonating howl that rips through the air brings tears springing to Dick’s eyes as he stumbles to a halt five paces from his target. In a few more steps he’d finally be able to touch, to feel, to bury his face in deep, heavy fur and relearn how to breathe all over again._

_He would be complete._

☾

The weeks leading up to the arrival of Dick’s betrothed are frenzied and at once enlightening—so much so it’s near impossible for him to keep his bearings about him. 

He’s prepared by tutors on how to speak, how to stand, sit, _act_ in every way a traditional Gothamite omega in courting ought, as opposed to an heir apparent. The shift in the castle stings, in a distinct way that’s subtly different than Bruce telling him to give up his sword, his tutors of more than two decades just change direction so _easily._ It occurs to Dick that maybe they were just humoring him all along when it came to respecting his claim to rule. 

(The dreams are just as overbearing in their intensity, running full throttle to the point where it feels like the only times of true rest Dick gets are during the daytime, when he slips away from his ‘supplementary lessons’ to either Wally or Roy’s lodgings to nap. He doesn’t dream when the sun is high, it’s the only peace Dick gets.)

However, Dick’s unfocused anger never wavers, even with the exhaustion clawing at the edges of his sanity and emerald eyes perpetuating his daydreams. He and Bruce have had progress, not the _best_ progress, granted, but on account of his pack alpha warring with Clark—they’ve stopped getting into screaming matches at the banquet table, at least. The help must be thanking their lucky eardrums. But still, the silence lingers between them in a way that’s downright icy, Tim doesn’t even try to bridge the gap like he usually might, as Dick animatedly chatters with him from across the table whilst stone walling Bruce with the efficiency of a block of uncut limestone. —The castle workers speak of it in hushed whispers, it’s unsurprising, Dick’s temper had been legendary in his teens. Hell, he can’t recall being this angry about anything since Bruce had tried to bar him from training with a sword.  
  
The date of his arranged mate’s arrival keeps ever closer, Dick almost wishes it’d come faster so he could just get everything over with. There’s just something about counting down his remaining days of freedom that makes the situation all the more morbid. It leaves him antsy.

“You should talk to Bruce,” Tim says, one night, while Dick’s adjusting his stance with the bo staff in his hands. (He’s been teaching the kid for years, and he gets better every day. Tim’s never been the knightly type but he’s quick, clever, and has potential. Dick wishes he could see the end product of cultivating that potential, but alas, the gods didn’t seem to be willing to grant him their favor.)

“He feels bad.” he continues, “You know how he gets when he feels… _bad_ about things.”

Dick only hums noncommittally, “If he felt bad he wouldn’t sell off his war hero, diplomat, a _son_ like a common wilted rose for a penny on a street corner.”

“... Your metaphors keep getting more and more scathing, is it because you’re antsy about the League’s caravan arriving soon?”

He sweeps Tim’s feet out from under him with a single swipe of his own staff then, the boy lets out a garbled yelp and falls into the dirt, “Stay that tongue little brother, no one likes a smart ass.”

☾

Finally, the exhausting whirlwind passes, leaving the familiar halls of the castle strange and unwelcoming. All in preparation for a man no one's ever even told Dick the name of—something about yet another time-honored courting tradition on the League’s side. Dick had watched the caravan’s arrival from a distance, it’d been like seeing a wave of molten gold and rich emerald cut through the citadel’s streets, as the Al Ghul’s shadows advanced on the castle. The colors were far too warm for a harsh climate like Gotham’s, the sharp contrast of the clash in aesthetics were entrancing in a strange way. A handmaid had quickly pulled Dick from the window after that, fussing over his hair and accessories for the nth time that eve.

He feels himself fading in and out of the preparations that follow as servants move him this way and that—almost to an impersonal degree. It feels like he takes a step outside of his body as the reality rolls over his shoulders like being dunked in a frozen lake. 

(When Dick comes back to himself fully he’s on his feet, in the palace throne room. He wishes he were dreaming.)

The main ballroom is filled with chattering nobility and a spattering of foreign envoy’s invited to the initial engagement celebration. Wandering eyes seem to go clawing at him from all sides as he stands beside Bruce’s throne along with Timothy, _all looking for flaws to exploit, no doubt_ _._ But then again, it’s nothing new. Dick’s always hated balls in Gotham’s palace from when he was young, with its seedy guests that oftentimes had even seedier intentions. The section of his brain that still has a sense of humor notes that at least he wouldn’t have to worry about suitors this time. 

The maids had clad him head to toe in full traditional upper-class Gothamite omega attire; the stiff cotton is patterned in various motifs of delicately embroidered roses and constricting vines, all strung with the rustic silvers and blues of Gotham, hair elegantly coiffed to the right. He keeps his face blank and unassuming, as his harried tutors had taught him _(alphas want a pretty face, a doll, a possession)_. Having caught a glance at himself in the mirror this morning, it all made Dick sick to his stomach in a deeply invasive way he’d sorely underestimated. _“Omega”._ His entire appearance practically _screams_ it. Just like what everyone in the palace (and Bruce) had wanted—Richard Wayne had finally been put in a safe corner, a perfect coffin the likes of which he’d never hope to escape. 

All for the sake of Bruce’s Gotham.

_This is fine, isn’t it?_

The anger was still there inside of him, it’d never left in the weeks leading up to the engagement party, but at the least, his fiery temper had chilled to a numb simmer, one that’d simply left Dick feeling hollow. Empty. The dreams both kept him alive and _feeling_ but at the same time, they only made him feel more empty, with the distress they’d left in their wake. These restless nights only seemed to wrack up with the approach of his betrothed's arrival, to almost absurd proportions. Dick can’t recall the last time he _hadn’t_ woken up with inexplicable tears of longing blurring his vision, a name on his lips he could never quite remember. 

(He wishes he could talk to Donna, she and Garth were invited weren’t they? Roy and Wally had volunteered for guard duty but he hadn’t seen a hide or tail of the other half of his core.)

The doors of the throne room creak open as silence sweeps over the guests in an unsettling wave, shaking him out of his thoughts; another sense of foreboding rolls through Dick’s gut as he stands at attention. His posture is perfect and reserved, hands folded in front, shoulders back, head lowered, _subservient, make yourself smaller, omegas ought to be slender and graceful, never muscular, who allowed you to train like an alpha with a face like that, what a shame—_

—The scent hits him first, brutal and unrelenting it’s like taking one of Wally’s kicks to the gut. 

It’s intense, even more so than Bruce’s heavy smoke-like scent, filled with a distinct underlying spice, like cinnamon mixed with embers, and a touch of Dick’s favorite baked bread. He sucks in a deep unsteadying breath as the entourage enters and the guests retreat to the edges of the ballroom. The sight of emeralds and golds are just the same as what Dick had seen from his bedroom window. Upon closer inspection, there are various servants carrying in chests plated in gold, along with the finest animal pelts he’s ever seen, fanning out around the edges of the space gradually forming a line. Until, finally, the entourage parts for a single man, flanked by Ra’s Al Ghul himself and his infamous eldest heir apparent, Talia, along with her youngest son. And there’s one more Dick can’t help focusing on, a girl, with short-cropped hair in the style of a bob, her eyes are warm—the color of chestnuts. The only reason she catches Dick’s attention over the roaring in his ears is simply due to just how different and _other_ she seems in comparison to Al Ghul royalty. But Dick doesn’t linger for long; that scent coils around him like that of one of Garth’s siren songs, it makes him weak in the knees.

His first glimpse of that chiseled jawline has Dick staggering as his wolf just _wails and doesn’t stop_ ; Bruce twitches beside him at the spike of subconscious interest in his scent, placing a grounding hand on his wrist when Dick grasps the edge of the throne to steady himself.

“Richard?” 

But he feels like he’s sinking, _down, down, down, to a place of no return..._ Bruce’s voice is muted like it's coming from somewhere above water. Even as he’s given another firm shake, Dick's zeroing in on sea-foam colored irises, clear and sharper than any knife even from across the large ballroom. 

_(Numbly, he recalls an image with a white wolf, with deep soulful eyes and a howl that rocked him to his core.)_

A sense of vertigo overtakes him then, as the images of the wolf and the man standing before him seem to waver and overlap in his vision. Dick blinks the water from his eyes as he fights the onslaught of sensations. He doesn’t realize his body is _reacting_ , leaning forward like a moth to a flame before Tim gives his wrist a worried squeeze on his other side and brings him crashing right back down to earth. 

**_Get a hold of yourself._ **

Dick’s head snaps up as he mentally shakes off the haze, regains his ever fracturing equilibrium. 

His betrothed is dressed in greens and yellows, the League’s royal colors, with the pelt of a golden tiger, etched onto the outside of his emerald cloak. The chestnut-colored curls with the misplaced shock of white perpetuating his hairline is something Dick catalogs along with the proudly displayed scars on the man’s person. The open vee showing off plains upon plains of solid muscle just seems to make every fiber of Dick’s being down to his waking mind want to openly weep with its own longing.

_(It just wasn’t fair.)_

The man’s expression across the room is about as slack and numb as Dick _feels_ right this moment, wrapped up in an ever-intensifying scent of spice and cinnamon, enough to bring him straight to his knees if it weren’t for his white-knuckled grip on the throne. Only one sentence registers against the roaring in his ears: 

“—The League of Shadows debuts their strongest warrior and current eldest recognized son, his Royal Highness Jason Al Ghul, to close the century-long rift between our packs.” 

Bruce stands, but Dick’s still drowning, even as Bruce descends the steps of the throne and clasps the hand of the infamous Demon’s head of the shadows in greeting. Even as he’s presented as the first son of Gotham, and lightning races down his spine when he blinks and he’s suddenly found himself at Bruce’s side, the perceived water just seems to keep burning his lungs. 

“Hold out your hand,” a voice rumbles, next to him low and near inaudible— _Dad, it’s dad. His pack alpha. Safety. Security._ Dick’s shoulders relax a fraction as he recalls the rehearsal that’d been drilled into him time and time again. _No time for this, dial it back, breathe._

Dick holds out his hand, palm up as he exposes his wrist, locking eyes with the source of his mental upheaval. (Upclose, those unblinking eyes resemble shimmering emeralds.) 

“I, Richard Grayson Wayne offer my hand to the alpha Jason Al Ghul, I commit myself and this body to this alpha to court me with marriage in mind, as he sees fit,” despite his turbulent emotions, the words feel like acid on his tongue, just as they had during the time spent memorizing the formalities of the engagement, even now, they still feel invasive on a base level. “—Will you accept this omega?”

The alpha goes straight to his knees, with a heavy thud that seems too loud in the hushed ballroom. The immediacy of the action sends an out of place thrill down Dick’s spine, “This offer, I solemnly accept, in accordance with the written blood of the Al Ghul and Wayne lines I tie our packs forevermore.” There’s a kiss to the inside of his bare wrist then that sets him on fire, if he were a lesser man, or perhaps a bit younger with less self-control, Dick thinks he’d have sunk to his knees right there with him. Warning bells ring endlessly in his brain alongside the treacherous thoughts:

_Dangerous, this is dangerous._

“Now then,” Bruce’s booming voice brings him back again, as the alpha straightens, raising a wine glass to a room of disorienting voices, “a toast, to the glory of the League and Gotham. —May our packs prosper, joined under the union of our most cherished sons.”

☾

Dick had been a dutiful son as he smiled engagingly between the numerous tributes and congratulations offered to him and his betrothed. He can’t help picking up on that voice a less than a foot or so away, low and honey-smooth, just as the dunes of the deserts to the east. Were voices supposed to be this hypnotic? Perhaps it’s because he’s listening so closely, that Dick can pick up the little inconsistencies that don’t quite click with the elegant way of speaking:

“—Ain’t been to Gotham often, on account a’relations an’ distance. But she’s a beauty, lord chancellor, the League would benefit incorporating some of her infrastructures if things go well.” Dick blinks at the hiccup, head snapping over at the same time those emerald eyes meet his. The intensity leaves whatever sentence that’d been on Dick’s lips teetering off. _One beat. Two beats. What was his thought, again?_ Spice curls around him like a beckoning chain something deep inside his chest _responds_ to.

Hastily, Dick breaks the spell, bodily breaking their tether as he turns his back to the alpha and says his goodbyes, pulling fatigue as an excuse for the crowds. —Dick retreats to the secluded shadows of one of the ballroom sitting areas as soon as he’s been able, and yet the visage of that angular face and those piercing, undauntable eyes haunts his heels like a very stubborn ghost. Observing the rest of the party, however, does little to improve his mood, less so when he spies Bruce and Ra’s conversing from afar.

One could say many things about Ra’s Al Ghul’s often murky history and dubious reputation.

To some, he was a warlord, the merciless ‘Demonhead’ who guarded his mountainous borders with a wall of fire, brimstone, and iron; training up his armies to be the most highly sought after mercenaries and assassins. To others, he was a figure cloaked in mystery who simply appeared out of the seemingly unlivable sand dunes of the Southern deserts, like a mirage become blood and flesh. Declaring the entire territory, only known for its nomadic shifter settlements and miscellaneous tribes, as _his_ well over eighty years ago. 

  
(No one quite knows how old the League's current sovereign is, and at this point, Dick’s convinced everyone’s too afraid to ask.)  
  


Bruce used to tell Dick tales when he was a scrappy circus brat, still learning the manner of the royal palace and how to survive. He’d speak of a man who was ruthless and unbending, who was ageless yet still as old as the earth beneath their feet, who felt mortal yet something simultaneously _other,_ one who was just as wolf as he was man melting into a wolf at his leisure even when the sun was high and there was no moon to give blessings. His eyes would soften around their edges when speaking of the League’s rolling, sparkling deserts and sparse greenery. There was a distinct fondness there, deep down that always lingered, now faced with the reality, Dick’s _sure_ it was that same lingering fondness and nostalgia from the time Bruce spent traversing the whole of the continent in his youth that sealed his fate. 

True, Bruce Wayne didn’t _trust_ Ra’s Al Ghul, but on some level he _respected_ him, and sometimes, when staring down the barrel that threatened ten more years of war with a malicious foreign entity after years of internal unrest—that was enough. As Dick studies the per mentioned walking-fable-come-to-life from across the ballroom, something in his skin starts to crawl; there’s just something intrinsically _wrong_ about a being like that standing so casually next to his pack alpha to dad. 

“ _Stop that_ honey, you’ll start an international incident, and I’m too busy with this Luther business to finish it.” 

Dick cuts off the deeply set hum in his chest before it can become a hostile rumble, turning it into a polite cough. His eyes slide over to a fairly unimpressed Donna Troy, dressed in her Themysciran tunic with a color scheme of whites and golds. 

“Sorry, Donna. Wish we’d met again under better circumstances but…”

“Nonsense, I wouldn’t miss this for the world,” she quirks a dry sort of smile his way, gives his shoulder a grounding squeeze, “I’d fight by your side in a heartbeat, Dick, tooth and nail but,”

“I won’t ask you to do that.” Donna’s smile drops, the beta bothers her bottom lip, the citrus mixed in with her flower-like scent seeming to sour by the moment, “... If I could’ve been better at peace talks—”

And… Dick would do anything for Donna to stop looking like that— _his_ sister who he’d found all on his own. Second princess and young envoy of Themyscira, his beta with wise gray eyes and thick, waves of raven black hair. From the moment their gazes met across the throne room when she entered dutifully at her elder sister’s side, something just _clicked_ in Dick’s brain, right there next to Roy’s puzzle piece.

However, Donna had been well-loved, so she couldn’t stay _always_ but that didn’t stop them from forming their bond. She came back each and every summer after, to snap at his and Roy’s heels with playful yips as they ran together as a pack amongst Gotham’s dense forests when the moon was full and the night was young. She was his right flank, his confidant, the older sister that knew him best that’d been missing all the time—and Dick was her omega, her brother in turn. She’d go to war for him, they all would.

Which is why Dick had to do everything within his power to suck it up and bite the metaphorical silver dagger. 

Donna trails off as the silence stretches on, "You did more than anyone against Luthor's machinations, Don. Besides, I'm fine.”

“I’ve known you _too_ long to believe that lie, hon.”

Dick winces at the genuinely angry undertone to her voice, he pulls back, cupping her cheeks with a deepening frown and… he lies through his teeth. “ _I will be._ It’s just ceremony, I’m not being forced into slavery or anything Don.” His laugh feels just a tad bit unhinged, he buries his face into her hair to hide its fractured edges. Reassuring Donna shifts his focus off of that scent until it doesn’t, his ‘husband-to-be’ still hasn’t left the room. It’s starting to make his omega _itch_. She doesn’t believe him for a second but it’s the thought that counts. 

_(Hel below, he’d put two hundred guests, his pack, and a sheer sheet between them—and he could_ **_still_ ** _smell his chosen partner clear as a buck during mating season. Was it a League trick? A special herb the Alpha had spritzed himself with?)_

He’s more than a little relieved when he hears a familiar voice from the pseudo nest’s entrance. “Starting without me? Why am I not surprised?” Dick perks up, a small smile blooming.

 _“Garth,”_ he hops up from the cushions as Donna releases him without minimal fuss, making it to the Atlantean in several quick strides for a greeting embrace. “Hey, brother. It’s been a few months.”

Thin lips uptick in response, “More like _eight._ I’ve been… preoccupied. Gotham’s medical research is truly something revolutionary. I cannot thank you enough for running negotiations,”

Garth he’d met during his fourteenth summer visiting one of Gotham’s beaches. The older omega wasn’t a shifter, not in the same ways as the others Dick had chosen—he was Atlantean; with gills and the tail of a fish instead of a wolf’s that he could step out of as easily as breathing. But Dick’s wolf had mourned and agonized, over the mere thought of passing up such a balancing addition to the pack and those wise, violet eyes, deeper than the lakes and all the seas of the world.   
  


(If Garth couldn’t run with them as one, then the pack would simply have to carry him.)  
  


He chose to stay by Dick’s side in a way not so dissimilar to Donna’s: as an ambassador. Atlantis had closed its gates to the surface for five consecutive decades. Garth had reopened them in two years and brokered a friendship pact with Gotham in the same breath. There were others that Dick took under his preverbal wing, of course, there were, with Dick’s involvement in Gotham’s military and politics. But, no matter how much their circle expanded, or how many surface-level bonds he’d make, nothing could ever replace his core. His heart. _His_ pack. 

And god if it wasn’t just the worst black stain on his conscience with the assured knowledge that every one of these brilliant idiots would follow him to the bowels of Hel in a heartbeat if need be.

“C'mere you reek of the sea.”

Garth laughs, bright and amused as he dunks his head to accept Dick’s scenting, arms locking around his middle, “I’m _supposed_ to smell like that, you’re aware? I spend most of my time under the sea,”

Dick hums, “Of course I know, still won’t stop me.”

“It won’t,” Donna agrees, leaning her chin on a fist, rolling her eyes in that fond way of hers, “he hasn’t let me leave for a good twenty minutes.”

“You two are usually away the longest,” he shrugs and leaves it at that as Garth noses his pulse affectionately. It’s the first time all evening Dick’s let the tension slip off his shoulders, “Walls and Roy I can see whenever I want.”

He breathes in—finds that dizzying fragrance fainter than before. It’s not so faint that Dick doesn’t instinctively know he could let his nose lead him right to the source if he followed the compulsion, but faded _just_ enough so that the haze in his head could finally clear. It’s a strange contrast from the syrupy molasses from before, clouding his reason, setting fire to his skin, he finds himself glancing around the room idly, searching for a familiar head of curls and chestnut brown. Maybe he—

“... left…? Stepped outside?”

Dick doesn’t realize he’s mumbling his thoughts out loud until Garth pulls away, looking down at him with a puzzled frown, “... Sour. Your scent.”  
  


 _Oops_.  
  


“Thanks for the vote of confidence on my engagement day, Gar.” 

Garth puts a calming hand to his forehead, pushing back his bangs, there’s the slightest bit of bitter undertone in his smile: “That’s... a word for this day. How are you holding up, little robin.”

And Dick dunks his head, looking away with his voice dropped low, “I _don’t_ wanna talk about it.”

“Yes, we’ll come back to that,” Donna comes up behind him, surrounding him with her scents of laurel and iris, contrasting against Garth’s sea salts and cedarwood, she rests a chin on his shoulder, “we’ll just spend some time catching up, we’ve been away too long—we’ve missed our leader.”

Dick closes his eyes for a moment, then turns his face to scent his star once more as Garth releases him and they’re led back to the cushions of the sitting area. He’d normally be busy entertaining guests and traversing the floor to keep Bruce and the nobility appeased, but he doesn’t have the energy for it, not tonight.

“Yeah… okay.”

They spend the bulk of the night getting tipsy on fine wines while Garth and Donna talk politics and the current climate of the lands. Roy and Wally aren’t around, and honestly, Dick’s kind of nervous about the brand of intervention he’s going to get with all four of them later dragged into a makeshift nest. Roy and Walls weren’t as good at bullying him into talking about feelings; Don and Gar however were completely different animals between Garth’s old soul gazes and Donna’s unparalleled ability to read him like an open book, stripped bare of its cover. 

(Dick is _really_ not looking forward to pack bonding time.)

No one bothers them until the party is winding down—it’s bittersweet in a way, the lack of attention in comparison to past parties speaks volumes. The evidence is especially damning when Dick can still remember having to beat suitors who didn’t know the meaning of the phrase ‘not interested’ away with the equivalent of a particularly sharp stick as early as last year.

 _What a shame, he’s off the market._ He picks the words up as gossips pass by and linger near their little canopy. 

_He’s lucked out the king picked out someone handsome—he should be grateful._

_Gotham’s prized gem oughtn’t be leading the knights._

_He’ll be waited on hand and foot for the rest of his life, I’m jealous._

Not even his packmates’ pleasant distracting chatter can block out the whispers from his all too sharp ears. Dick tolerates for far longer than he probably needs to, than any _sane_ person probably needs to, because sandwiched between familiar scents feels like it's enough… Well, at least enough to block out the lingerings of what’d absolutely wrecked his inhibitions earlier.

But everyone has their breaking point. The tittering and gossiping wear on him the same way a chisel my chip at his bones. Dick can’t muster up the energy to play the ‘good son’ as Gotham’s willful, yet prized, omega—not tonight. (It’s hard to breathe, he wonders if it's got something to do with the corset squeezing his middle.) 

_An omega wouldn’t have been a good king anyways._

Donna pauses mid-sentence, a stillness rolling over her shoulders as Dick feels his stomach drop to the floor—it’s not fear he feels, its anger, frustration, injustice, it’s _everything_ he’s felt these last few months all at once. Garth stands slow with coiled muscles, icy eyes scanning the floor as he makes a move to step forward. Abruptly, Dick stands too quickly, roughly breaking away from Donna’s hold around his waist.

“Dick—” 

He inhales, then exhales, unwinding his tense shoulders, “...I think I need to go out for some air.”

There are two sets of worried eyes following his back as Dick slips out of the ballroom, he’d catch hell for it from Bruce later but… he just needed a moment of privacy from those judgemental gazes. —The alternative was punching a blueblood socialite in the face which, from past experience, was _not_ in fact a Bruce-approved method of diplomacy.

Go figure.

The cold night air nips at the bare skin of his cheeks and reddens his nose as Dick makes his way down the stone dual staircase leading down from the balcony and into the courtyard. The constraint of the clothing and the layers is too much, he finds himself tugging at the collar of his vest, hurrying along the length of the colonnade as a lone cloud blocks out the silvery moonlight. 

(He almost wishes the moon were full, so he could just sink into his instincts, feel the night air kissing his coat as he raced the winds.)

“—You’re the black wolf with the blue eyes, aren’t you?” A deep voice cuts through him, and Dick startles as though the skin’s been flayed from his very back. 

Dick goes still as marble, bracing himself against one of the many pillars leading to the west wing of the palace, it takes him a beat too long to turn around. He’d only heard the man speak once—during the engagement’s formal declaration ceremony, but Dick knows it without even looking. He thinks he’d have still known the voice’s identity regardless. When he inhales it strikes him again, that same intoxicating spice _(had he been following his nose subconsciously, or was it mere coincidence?)_ Dick slowly turns around, taking several steps forward, lips parting and closing. Jason Al Ghul meets him halfway.

When he looks up and _up_ he’s not sure if it’s better or _worse_ the alpha seems every bit as compromised and enamored as he feels inside and out. Because that means it’s not just some League trick, that means this is _real_ and Dick’s not sure how to handle the person he’s been trying to hate for months being,

 _“My soul,”_ the alpha Jason breathes in, burying his face in Dick’s hair, large hands skimming his spine, moving to entangle themselves in Dick’s gloved fingers. hanging limp at his sides. Something inside Dick _loathes_ that he can't even feel the feather-light touches of intimacy through all the layers, “you smell just like—”

“—Home.” Dick finishes, quietly, as those sturdy arms wind around his waist and he’s pulled deeper and deeper into the darkness of the courtyard's pillars and the night’s shadows. It’s like every last fiber of his being is singing, down to his wolf, his very _soul_ , and it’s still not enough. It’s never enough. Al Ghul's chosen son all but pins him back against the corrugated stone, eyes burning green in the light of the moon’s silver. “You’re,” he wavers, and smiles, a touch resentful, “... You’re my ‘white wolf’.”

“I am.”

“You’re what’s at the end of the lilacs.”

That hand tentatively untangles itself to reach up and cup one of his cheeks; the bare skin to skin contact cuts through him like a well-polished knife. He closes his eyes then, places a hand over those scarred knuckles. (When had they started leaning in.) Dick’s not sure when exactly their foreheads had gotten close enough to press, he’s too distracted by the all-encompassing scent of cinnamon spice blotting out his world, the sounds, the air, and everything that’s ever been. Hot, heavy breaths exhale against willing lips, Dick’s eyes flicker down, then back up into those slightly lidded eyes.

 _“...I am,”_ Jason repeats, the growl in his voice more lupine than man. Another intense wave of _longing_ and _oh gods please,_ hits him like a blow to the gut, as Dick squeezes those large, unyielding forearms in a tight grip. 

(Is this the way soulmates were supposed to feel? Bruce had always called it ‘indescribable’, Clark had said it was just the same as traversing a storm, only to end up, serene, in the calm of its eye.)

“... I just… let me—?” That deep voice is a rumbling, wrecked, _mess_ of a thing, and something in Dick’s chest is aching in just the same way. _Those eyes are cinched with a deep longing, the same longing Dick’s felt for months and months, it makes him wonder if maybe Jason woke up crying every night too._

He responds by tangling his fingers in dark curls, tilting his own head up, heels rising as he coils his arms around wide-set shoulders. _“Please.”_

When their lips meet it’s the satisfaction of slicing a block of firewood cleanly in two with his sword, it’s besting Clark in a spar for the first time when he was seventeen; it’s watching one of his strategies work without a hitch in the heat of battle, it's the warm feeling that came with being small and riding on Bruce’s back as he humored him and called him ‘son’, of nesting with his Titans whenever they were all in one place—it’s all those things at once and yet still something distinctly other and _more_. And just the same, at once the best thing Dick's ever felt. When they break away his lips are swollen and tingling faintly, _(when did that happen?)_ , and they’re both panting, having long lost their breath _(How long had they been kissing for, minutes? Hours?)_ Abruptly he throws himself back with blown-wide pupils, blinking hard and fast as his vision wavers at the edges. 

The alpha looks at him questioningly, with an equally moonstruck gaze, hands moving to tangle their fingers together as another thrill goes shooting down Dick’s spine at the skin to skin contact. “You’re a Gotham-native, aren’t you?” Dick says, tongue feeling clumsy around the words with all of Jason’s heat surrounding him; it's like speaking in a wind-tunnel, all he can register is the thundering in his ears and their combined labored breathing.

A calloused thumb pad smooths over the back of Dick’s knuckles as Jason hums noncommittally, reaching up a hand to unfasten Dick’s collar so he can get at his neck, “S... Same facial features and you speak the dialect too well—even Ra’s has a slight inflection.” he continues, voice wavering, “You use the same vocabulary as people in the markets…” Dick trails off as his left glove is worked off, and clever fingers move to unfasten his cufflinks. 

“I am. Doesn’t matter. Just…” Jason gets distracted again, lips moving over his pulse, and frankly, so does Dick. His hands move frantically to untie the sash from around the alpha’s waist, desperate for more of that burning skin, needy for more of that fire.

He feels Jason shudder under his lithe fingers as they dip into the open vest, curious as they wander across a map of solid muscles and scars. 

**_I want._ **

Dick startles, that one singular thought is intense enough to bowl him right over, a deep resonating purr rumbles against the side of his throat, right up against his scent gland. It’s fit to turn him into mush. “You smell like a field of wildflowers,” the whisper stops him short before strong hands scoop him up but the thighs, hitching him up further against the castle walls. The alpha murmurs something inaudible then that Dick’s waking mind vaguely recognizes as harsh Arabic, his wrap loosens as his betrothed pops button after button open on his vest.

_This is dangerous._

He only sees a thin ring of luminous green in those eyes as the alpha— **Jason** , his brain minds— lifts his head from where he’s been mouthing at Dick’s neck. “I don't...I just don’t understand. I’m usually better, I can—” thick brows furrow tightly, but all Dick can focus on is the scar bisecting the left in two. He feels a frown on his lips as he finds another, under his jawline, and another… and another… His frown only deepens in growing outrage, near frustration—but his waking brain can’t figure out _why._ But his omega knows very well.

_(Alpha wouldn’t get injured with him hunting by his side.)_

It doesn’t click that he’s feeling up that broad expanse of the chest until he feels a shudder go through those tightly wound muscles. Like the calm before a storm, a sharp inhale is Dick’s only warning before Jason is surging forward again with tongue, teeth and an intensity Dick has to fight to match. _He wants..._

Firm hands stop him just short of unclasping the elaborate belt around a solid waist, Dick’s entire soul, his very _being_ , cries out in silent dismay. The alpha’s voice is a low comforting rumble, “Bed…” He breathes, “It wouldn’t be proper to mate outside of one,”

Dick shakes his head shortly, having just enough self-control, to fight back through the haze: “Wa.. _.wait_.”

To his credit, Jason freezes in his tracks, somehow Dick gets the impression he’ll let him go in a heartbeat if he asks. It’s in the way those dark eyes clear just the slightest fraction and that grip loosens on Dick’s thighs. It’s reassuring; he’s _safe_ , he can change his mind at any point—he’s in control. Dick draws in another deep shuddering breath. “Don’t bite, we’re not supposed to do that traditionally until our wedding night,” Dick hesitates, “and…”

Jason inclines his head, eyes still hazy, "What does it matter?”

“We’re strangers.” Dick says, gaining confidence, “I’m not forming a mating bond with someone whose origins I don’t even know,”

“—I’m an heir to the demon.”

“Yet you’re somehow also a son of Gotham, and I don't know a _thing_ about you.”

Jason pauses a beat, face twisting into something complicated before he seems to mentally take a step back, “Okay… okay. That—” He blinks dilated irises, swimming his way back to awareness the same way Dick had, “that... makes sense. I’m courting you. No mating bite till the wedding.”

Dick’s shoulders relax a fraction as he wraps his arms around Jason’s neck, “Love at first sight is a myth this is—"

 _“—Lust.”_ Again, it's less of a word and more of a guttural _growl,_ something Jason by all rights shouldn't have the vocal cords to pull off this far from the full moon.

A pleased, impressed chill tingles down Dick's spine as he locks onto that focused gaze that sees straight through his bravado, with Dick’s own body all at once arching towards, _reacting._ “Yeah… It’s,” Dick wets his lips, eyes studying Jason’s exposed skin appraisingly, “lust.”

And Jason’s lips quirk in something far too sardonic to be a true smile, “... Alright. Fine then, I’ll play your game, sweet.” 

Dick wavers, thrown off balance all over again as the other releases his thighs, “What game?”

The alpha hums, noncommittal, “Dun’ worry about it—how’s about we have some fun.” He takes Dick’s hand in his and touches the inside of his lips ever so slightly with his lips, that bitter expression melting into something very real and very charming, enough to steal Dick’s breath away. “Take me to bed, and I have a feeling it’ll show us both a _way_ better time than the party upstairs.”

Dick Grayson-Wayne has always been many things. A performer. A prince. At times a martyr for those he loved. —And above all else, an adrenaline chaser. Donna’s been warning him about his bad habits since it was just her, him, and Roy in their little pack: _Richard you’re gonna get yourself in way over your head one day._

And at that moment, with those emerald eyes flashing down at him in a way that promised danger and depravity of the highest order? With the feel of the hair raising on his arms in tandem with the meer lingering burn of those lips on his bare skin? —It hits all of his senses hard as a war hammer when he surges upward to capture those lips once more, rough palms pressing up under his dress shirt, smoothing over the exposed surface of his lower back. 

~~Donna had been right all along.~~

☾

Gotham’s values towards omegas had always been conservative, spun so crooked in ways that Dick had never quite understood as a child. Especially as one who’d traveled the continent and seen a number of cultures whilst a member of Haley's caravan. _(A part of him still didn’t understand it now.)_ So far as he could discern, it was just another way for Gotham's crass noble populus to keep its children—or glorified political bargaining chips, rather—well under heel. Contrary to his reputation, and what people assumed from his pretty face, by Dick’s definition his sexual encounters were actually fairly limited. Between building his reputation in Gotham’s military, and inserting himself in the council at any given opening, the closest thing he’d ever gotten to a sexual encounter had been during a quiet moment, during one of Gotham’s civil conflicts. He’d awkwardly asked Roy to teach him how to kiss at the ripe virginal age of seventeen, Roy had agreed. Yet even that hadn’t truly been ‘allowed’; it’d ended with a bit of minor groping, nothing too intense.

But _this_ … whatever 'this' was with Jason, it was something else entirely. As though Dick could burrow in and make his home in the other's chest, make a nest between his ribcage right next to his still-beating heart, and it _still_ wouldn’t be enough. Jason Al Ghul’s touch was an inferno of the most enticing kind, one that he’d throw himself into at every turn of it meant easing the ice that’d been lingering on his skin from the moment he became Gotham’s prince.   
  


(It’s a contradictory thought—because Jason’s also the very thing that’s binding him in the first place.)  
  


They stumble into Dick’s chambers after a fair amount of breaks and pauses along the way, sometimes for Jason to press him against a wall, licking into his mouth all over again, sometimes to just… touch, to _feel_ each other. His neatly coiffed hair had been mushed and unraveled into a fluffy mess, with how often Jason obsessed with running his fingers through his dark locks on their way through the palace’s empty corridors. Dick’s never been so glad for Bruce throwing a ball, it meant they had most of the wing to themselves.

 _“Hel, sweet, prettiest thing I've ever seen,”_ Dick’s eyelids flutter as he’s walked back towards his bed, an all-encompassing pepper-like scent fills his senses—enough to make him weak in the knees, enough to leave his lower gut filling with heat as Jason strips him with hyperfocused efficiency Yet still, a part of him still wonders how Jason knows so much lower Gothamite slang. 

Dick’s knees bend when they hit the mattress, he lets out something like a muted exhale as he falls back against the mattress. He takes a moment to breathe in deep calming breaths, while Jason’s face soon swims into vision. “I’ve got a question for you sweet,” he says, gradually popping open the buttons of Dick’s dress shirt before starting in on unlacing his corset, he tosses aside both with little abandon. “And I’m gonna need an honest answer, here.” 

He offers the alpha a slow nod as Jason’s hands wander along his bare sides, abdomen clenching when those palms run over the subtle definition there. Dick’s no fool, he feels the tremor in those fingers, the slightly off-kilter exhales. —It makes him feel better in a way, knowing he’s not the only one here fighting for order where there is none. _“Y..eah…”_ he slurs, blinking hard, gripping those forearms boxing him in to steady himself. “I mean, yeah, fire away.”

“I know how Gotham is. And I was just,” Jason works his jaw for a moment, Dick can’t help being drawn to the motion. “You’ve never done this before… have you?”

Dick stills something bitter like ire rising in his chest, “I have.” He lies evenly, as Jason scoffs reaching out a hand to grip Dick's cheek, tipping back his chin.

 _“Liar,”_ he says, sliding down Dick’s trousers, “but, I already said I’d ‘play’.”  
  


Twenty minutes finds Dick nude, hips pinned to the bed as deft, calloused fingers work him open and teeth drag themselves over his inner thighs. Dick shudders as he _burns_ , lightning in his spine, flowing through his veins, all under Jason’s lips. His fingers tangle in those brunette and inexplicably-white curls hips canting _up_ as his eyes fill when Jason does something heavenly with his tongue, spreading him wide with two digits. If Jason had just been silent it’d be a different story, if he didn’t _speak_ Dick could just lose himself in the sensations, go back to pretending his white wolf isn’t a fundamental betrayal of his very sense of self. But the first real thing he learns about Jason Al Ghul is that he _never_ stops talking.

“— _Like breathing in a field of lilacs, sweet… the most enticing honeysuckle ‘ve ever gotten to savor…”_

Dick arches sharply, as those long fingers find a spot inside of him that leaves his gut-clenching and his toes curling. His hands twist roughly in Jason’s hair as he locks his legs around a broad pair of shoulders, “Don’t bite those pretty lips, like that,” Jason rumbles, tongue mostly out as he sinks further between his legs, “You’ll hurt yourself.”

_“Gods—”_

He falls back against the mattress, with a low groan, hips mindlessly gyrating against Jason’s clever mouth. Sparks flash in his vision as the alpha holds his thighs firm and thoroughly skims his tongue along his rim before licking his way into his hole. Nothing he’s done had ever been or felt like _this_ , even when Dick quartered himself off in his room to spend his heats alone. A multitude of curses mixed with more than a few likely blasphemies tumble from Dick's lips as he grasps and smooths over whatever skin he can reach—he just wants to _touch_. Dick’s never wanted for anything more in his entire life, and Jason’s not even that far away. _Surround me in your scent,_ he wants to beg, _blot out the world and everything else, I just want to feel you.  
  
_

(Much later, Dick will cite this moment as one of his greater miscalculations.)  
  


Jason lifts his head then, as though Dick had said the words out loud, honestly, for all Dick knows, he very well might have. Those pupils are pitch as twin black pearls Dick can’t even see a lick of that green as he reaches for his white wolf—‘ _Jason’, his omega purrs._ Their lips meet again like two pieces to a forgotten puzzle, Dick exhales as he clumsily licks and bullies his way between split lips, nails digging into those scarred shoulder blades. 

He breaks away with hazy eyes that _spicecinnamonembers_ encompassing his senses, as he lets out a low, mournful whine, rocking his hips _up_ , grinding and rolling himself against the bulge in those loose trousers Jason has the nerve to continue wearing, _when he’s here and willing, laid bare—_

Dick stops himself short, runs back over the words in his head they feel right, they _are_ right. This isn’t like biting a pillow whilst frantically working a phallus substitute inside himself, it’s an entirely different monster Dick’s starting to suspect he’s underestimated. _Fire and oasis. Sun and Moon. Kindred Spirits. Soulmates._ None of it feels real to his waking mind in any tangible way, but pressed into his satin sheets by the alpha’s bulk, his muscle, his _fire_ , Dick’s _never_ been so warm. 

He doesn’t realize he’s crying until he feels lips pressing against the salt on his cheeks, and cooing praises whispered against his skin in a mix of Gotham slang and gentle Arabic. Dick only picks up a few words between his deep, shuddering breaths, in both languages, the same word keeps repeating.   
  


_Beloved.  
  
_

(The word holds a weight that makes Dick’s blood sing, he’s not sure why—there's just something to Jason’s tender tone of voice, his reverent touches.)

He holds on tight when Jason finally slides into his slick heat, arms refusing to let go even for a moment. Dick inhales and exhales as Jason holds him in his lap, gradually easing him down. He blinks hazy eyes as he’s stretched wider around the base—were all alpha’s this big? Dick mentally tries to recall the ‘companion’ he’d used during his last heat, but inhales sharply as nails graze his sides, leaving lines of possessive red in their wake. The lines sting in a way that leaves a part of Dick tingling down to the tip of his toes as he’s wetting his lips.

“ _Fenris…”_ As if in response, those fingers dig into his thighs in a near bruising grip, he feels an alpha’s growl resonate against his lips.

“Fenris isn’t here and he’s not listening, _ya amar._ ” It’s all the warning Dick gets before Jason rocks upward, holding his hips in a bruising grip. The omega lets out a choked mix between a gasp and a sharp moan, it’s the most he’s vocalized all night—and Jason’s on it like a bloodhound on a scent as he peers into Dick’s equally blown-wide pupils, rocking his hips with languid gyrating motions, right up against the sweet spot he’d found with his fingers. 

It takes a beat or two until Dick just _wails_ , melting and tensing up all at once as he paws at a powerful back, hot and slippery with sweat, “ _Jason… Jason yes, there—”_

Jason mouths at the side of his throat, a slightly out of it grin on his face, “See? That’s more like it, sweet.”  
  


_What a smug bastard._   
  


Dick grips the headboard behind Jason, rolling his hips forward experimentally as his partner grunts with a gritted foreign curse while the oak wood creaks in protest; something inside him _preens_ when that hot gaze sweeps over his body with a mix of lust and unfiltered worship. There’s a reassuring weight on both sides of his hips guiding their vigorous coupling, one that doesn’t shy away from how he’s a little too tall for an omega, just a tad bit muscular, a little too toned. 

_“—Beautiful, you’re beautiful, most gorgeous in all the realms, with eyes of ice and sapphire—Hel,”_ The words strike a chord in him he hadn’t even known was there. Dick dips forward then for another fervent kiss, not even protesting when Jason flips them over, entering him once more and blocking out the rest of Dick’s world. The night fades into a pleasure-filled blur, of mixing moans and the press of skin against skin.

Jason won’t stop repeating the same phrase between numerous meetings of desperate lips and gasping breaths:

_“Ya Rouhi, Beloved.”_

(Dick pretends he doesn’t murmur, the same sentiment in return without fail every time between the tears of relief Jason kisses away. He’s a liar after all.)

_My Soul. My Love._

☾

When Dick finally comes back to himself, he’s the most well-rested he’s felt in a long time. —A twinge of soreness starts in his lower back as he shifts, cheek pressed against a warm chest, a purr resonates low and easy in back of his throat, as he burrows his face further between those cushion-like pectorals. Unfamiliar fingers play with his nest of a bed head for a long time, a soft voice he can’t quite understand murmurs patiently from above. There’s no more burning, just comfort, and _warmth_ , and he’s never been so thoroughly satisfied.

_Richard? It’s morning._

Dick’s brows draw together, _No… that wouldn’t do. That name was wrong, this person ought to call him...  
  
_

“Beloved.”  
  


Dick’s eyes blink open then, he’s met face to face with a familiar scared face with emerald eyes and— _oh._ The hazy memories return to him wave by wave, _Jason taking him apart on the bed. Jason holding him close in his lap and taking him slow and deep until he was outright sobbing. Jason’s fire. Jason’s passion and how it just seemed to interlock, oh so, perfectly with Dick’s own and—  
_

“Oh no.”  
  
Jason’s grin is crooked and sideways, smug as a feline, “Say again, I should be calling you ‘Beloved’?”

He can only cover his face with his hands, sinking into the bedsheets, _“This was a mistake,"_

That gets him an amused snort as two deft fingers walk their way up the length of Dick’s bare spine, the spider-like sensation leaves him shuddering, “Not according to the gods and the matching inks on both our persons, pretty boy.” 

Dick’s mouth opens and closes, for a moment righteously offended by his (alleged) future spouse giving him a nickname like ‘pretty boy’, registering the statement itself takes longer than it probably should.

“I…” he trails off, throat suddenly dry as his face just goes slack, “What did you just say…?”

Jason points to a silhouetted mark on his body, stark and black against the pale skin of his left shoulder, “Robin.” Then he shifts the blankets until the skin just shy of Dick’s hip bone is visible, and points out a matching bird, “Robin.”

The irony is palpable. Dick takes one look at the mark and lets out a short, scornful kind of laugh, as the last of his hopes of this being an elaborate ruse slip from his grasp. The gods really did have a nasty sense of humor. _Ma had called him 'robin', saying he reminded her of a spring songbird when they flew together. The reminder suffocates, the reminder burns._

“So?”

“So _what?_ ” Dick fingers the mark, a part of him hoping ~~(and dreading)~~ for it to disappear, to see the skin bare again. 

“Are we going to talk about this or are you going to keep pretending you’re not feeling what I’ve been feeling since my lips touched your wrist.” Those eyes seem to pierce straight through him, picking him apart from the inside out. Dick can’t help shuddering.

“It’s complicated.”

The man hums, twirls a lock of his hair, “That’s not what you said last night when I slid between your legs and,”

Dick rushes to cover his mouth, heat rising to his cheeks as he’s reminded of the events of the night before, “ _Hush_. That doesn’t leave this room.”

“I didn’t even knot you,” Jason blinks, innocently, “your sheets can attest to that.”

“...Annnd now you’re just being purposefully obtuse. Wonderful.”

The alpha shoots him a haughty grin, “What's a matter? Can’t handle a bit of ribbing, pretty boy?” He snorts when he’s shot a glare for the teasing, “Oh, whatever. But, for the record? This version of you is _way_ more interesting than the blank slate I saw at the ball. I thought the universe had assigned me the blandest, prettiest slice of cut meat—” he pauses, giving Dick an appraising once over, “But you turned out to be a full course meal. Can’t judge by first impressions.” 

The tone of the words leave him blinking, “I’m not in love with you. I’m not marrying you for love, I’m marrying for _Gotham_.”

Jason hums, twirls a strand of Dick’s hair, “Then I’ll just have to court you seriously.”

Something inside his gut starts to thrill at the words, and Dick chews his already split bottom lip, “... Court me? Why?” He pointedly clears his throat, “It’s a formality at best, we’re to be married in several seasons’ time no matter what.” That smug face softens into something boyish and fond—dangerously so—it’s the kind of face that Dick thinks he could fall for.

“To prove myself worthy, of course,” Jason takes his wrist again and presses his lips to Dick’s pulse. "And I don't need a soulbond's help to do _that,_ sweet."

☾

Roy laughs at him for twenty minutes straight when Dick sheepishly tells him how the night ended. Roy is the worst.

“You… you mean to tell me, after all that posturing, all that talk about ‘finding your own soulmate’—the universe did the bulk of work for you, which it’s supposed to do, by the way... and now you’re _mad_ about it?”

“Not. Helping. Harper.”

The older man leans back on his haunches, covering his amused smile with a palm, Dick narrows his eyes as he watches his friend’s shoulder’s quake, “Sorry, sorry, I’m not laughing _at_ you,”

“Yes, you are.”

“Yeah… fine, okay, kind of.” A hand is waved in his face for his trouble, Dick crinkles his nose and snaps at it in response. “ _Someone’s_ testy. Is it because Bruce was involved specifically? Because that’s a little petty, Rob.”

Dick blinks, thrown off balance for a moment, “ _Excuse me?_ I’m not seventeen anymore, Roy, it’s... look it’s way more complicated than that!”

He’s even more offended when his packmate arches a skeptical eyebrow, “Lots of your ‘complicated’ feelings can be traced back to Bruce.” And the real kicker—? Roy’s not even necessarily _wrong,_ Dick’s gone to war for his obtuse mess of a pack alpha and father-figure at least thrice to prove himself, after all. 

Just then, Donna pokes her head out of the impromptu nest on Roy’s floor just a few feet away, from where she’s curled up between Wally and Garth. The beta relaxes when sees the two of them just on Roy’s bed, breathes in both their scents and plops right back into the collection of blankets and various clothing garments, despite his rotten mood, Dick’s lips quirk into a slight smile. _It’s been so long_

“I mean… sort of,” he continues after a momentary pause following the interruption, “I spent my entire life proving that I’m _more_ than a pretty face, you know? I studied my ass off to take over for Bruce when the time comes and he goes to one negotiation on his own and gives me away for a damned _treaty_?” He drags a frustrated hand through his hair. “And he hasn’t even looked me in the eye since. He’s looked _past_ me but he doesn’t even half the nerve to actually face me after….” His shoulders slump as Roy pats him hard on his back, staring solemn and silent down at their napping packmates.

“So… it’s complicated?”

“ _Yeah,”_ Dick plops his head on Roy’s shoulder, huffing out a frustrated breath, “It’s complicated.”

Roy pauses looks at him for a moment, looking older than he has any right to look, then ever so softly: "We'd take you away if you asked, you know? You just need to say the word, Robbie." Dick lets out a broken sort of laugh as Roy smooshes him against his side with an arm.

"... I know." Dick sighs as he buries his face against a familiar scent gland, inhaling evenly as his muscles unwind, "That's why it's something I'll never ask of any of you."

The other gives his side a light reassuring squeeze in response, "Course not. It's why we follow you instead, Rob. God knows you'd be at a loss left on your own."

He cracks a smile then, a real one this time as he elbows Roy's arm good-naturedly, "Damn good thing I'm never alone then." He gets a light noogie for the trouble, but Dick's left feeling a bit lighter after the conversation, _reassured._ The thought of the first of his courtship meetings with Jason still put his stomach into knots but at the very least Dick's reminded of who exactly he's doing this marriage for in the first place. It's the little moments like this, with _his people,_ that matter—that are well worth protecting.

(His Titans have fought more than enough wars just choosing to be by his side, after all.)  
  


☾  
  


Dick’s hair has been done up again, neatly coiffed to the left with Gothamite gray roses clipped to the right. It’s not the flowers that bother him, per se, but it’s that he can’t separate himself from the constricting thorns embroidered into the sheer cape clipped to his shoulders, nor the fact that the motifs of ‘roses’ seem to perpetuate every inch of his person. From the silver pin on his breast pocket to the thread-thin hint of stitched florals on his firmly tucked dress shirt, it’s something Dick can’t seem to escape from.

_Maybe he was never meant to escape, to begin with._

He’s reminded of the party again of the whispers. — _Never worthy. Never enough._ Dick looks out at the shadowy silhouette of Gotham in the distance, propping his chin on a fist as he watches the light of the setting sun paint the city a crimson red. Gotham’s sunsets tended to run redder than most, more vibrant. Some say it’s the blessings of Skoll upon the kingdom itself, as penance for the warmth of the sun’s rays never quite managing to break through the gray skies and the perpetual chill that always lingered even during the spring and summer months. Thus gracing the whole of Gotham with a beautiful sky in the hours of twilight. Dick is seated at a sizable patio table backlit by the light source, there are two empty wine glasses, one across from his person, the other just in front. (He’d been led here by an encourage of palace maids who’d lit the lanterns of the gazebo and elegantly requested he wait patiently for his betrothed’s arrival.)

“Didn’ know you looked so good in white,” Tension mixed with something too conflicted to refer to as eagerness rolls over Dick’s shoulders as he turns towards the achingly familiar voice, “You’re like a dream in everything you wear, Sweet.”

Jason Al Ghul leans against the doorway of the open-air gazebo, he’s dressed head to toe in a smart black, league-style vest, with gold accents. Dick’s so distracted by his bare chest it takes him a beat or two to register the wine bottle and the bouquet he’s holding. Dick closes his eyes then, stops breathing to clear his brain, and counts back from ten.

“Not my usual, it’s a tradition.” Jason offers up the flowers, leaning heavily against the table’s solid stone foundations, peering over to catch Dick’s careful gaze, it near leaves his breath catching, “Besides, you don’t know me as well as you think.”

The words feel like a lie. He doesn’t yet take the flowers. 

Jason takes his seat and offers them up again, “Wonderful. Good thing I’m here to get to know you.” —Dick had been expecting roses but when he looks, _really looks,_ he… sees wildflowers. Gathered painstakingly by hand, with thin stems oh, so, meticulously woven together and tied off in a loose red bow. Even with Jason’s overwhelming presence encompassing his senses, he can still scent hints of Gotham’s dirt on the stems. Cautiously, Dick’s eyes skim over the alpha’s form. That self-assured smile softens up, into something that’s less bravado and a slight bit more bashful, the golden tiger fur tossed over his shoulders seems to glisten in the light of the sunset, as Jason pointedly readjusts the cloak so the patterns show proudly in Dick’s line of gaze. The action is obvious in how deliberate it seems, but he can’t quite pick up on _why._ Dick returns his gaze to the flowers in silence, reaching out to touch a Gothamite lilac. 

Jason inclines his head, his expression flickers as the offered hand wavers, “... Not to your liking?”

Dick shook his head before he takes the offered gift, inhaling the sweet aroma of blossoms and fresh pollen, it’s almost strong enough to overpower Jay’s spice and embers, “There are Kryptonian fire lilies mixed in here,” he murmurs, as he mentally picks them out one by one—there are even spatterings of bluebell blossoms from Themyscira, “where did you find all of these..? Some of the blossoms here aren’t even native to Gotham.”

“That you’re correct in,” Jason says, as he takes setting a glass of fine, eastern wine on the table—its label is in Sanskrit Dick can’t quite translate aside from a few words that make little sense of out of context, “you’re just so bewitching tonight, Beloved, I can’t help wishing to try our first night together again—perhaps when we're both in less... of a frenzy."

The back of Dick's neck feels hot at the sight of those lips, quirking ever so devilishly. He clears his throat, “That’s not here nor there,”

That gets him a curious look, “... Still ‘strangers’, huh?” Dick’s eases up, some of the polite engagement in his own tone falls away. 

“Acquaintances.” Dick corrects, soft as can be as he messes with a loose thread on his cloak, “At the very least we’re closer to that.” Jason stares at him long and hard, sharp eyes seeming to look straight through him. It’s more than a little unsettling simply because Dick’s spent twenty years hiding himself, stifling everything that makes him an omega to the world at large. An alpha he’s nary known for more than a few days being on that list ought to be uncomfortable at best, invasive at worst—dreams or no dreams. But Dick’s inner omega just seems to rumble low and pleased, at every warm smile, every micro-expression, down to the confident quirk of those crooked lips. 

Dick bothers his lip, looks away from those twin oceans of seafoam, “The flowers, they’re beautiful.” He says slow and halting, “I thought you’d…” he trails off.

“You thought I’d bring you roses of silver. Like the ones in your hair,” Jason uncorks the bottle, “but I don’t think they suit you very well.”

He should be offended, but instead, he’s _charmed_ , by that smooth easy voice and Jason’s jawline cut by the red of the approaching twilight. “Ah.” Dick’s tone is light and easy as Jason tops off his glass—the wine is a deep red with purple hints, it’d probably be black in unnatural light, “Well, I mentioned this isn’t my norm, I tend to be more comfortable with a sword in hand then done up like a pretty gift. But, well, as is the life of a Gotham omega, I suppose.”

There’s a sardonic note in his tone, Jason picks up on it judging by the flash in his eyes, “I’d much prefer you with violets, it’d bring out your eyes, especially with the gold accents and jewelry I’d shower you in...” He reaches out tentatively, encompassing Dick’s gloved hand in his own. —Dick can feel the heat of his touch even through the stiff cotton. “As my consort.” It’s like his throat dries itself out as inch by inch Jason’s fingers slide off one of his gloves, shivering with every slight brushing of skin, every naked point of contact. Heat runs up his arm and travels up and down his spine as Jason tangles their bare fingers, that intense gaze is back again. The gazebo seems to be lit in red.

“Thorns and roses don’t suit you,” he reiterates, “yours is the type of disposition that thrives free and wild, like your wolf.”

Dick swallows nothing as he melts just a little more, dangerously so, “Oh yes? And just how does His Highness Jason Al Ghul know what my wolf wants?” There are endless pins pricking Dick’s skin as he subconsciously smooths a thumb tenderly over the skin of those scarred knuckles, _(there’s an undeniable part of him that wants to press a kiss to every single scar he can find, swear loyalty, promise protection)._

Jason’s smile is at ease, if not a bit wary, “Beloved, we finally meet in person and that’s all you’ve to ask me…? You’d deny who you are to my face?” He closes his eyes, Jason’s other bare palm reaches up to cup one of Dick’s cheeks. Fire fills him up, all the way down to his core, it’s like he’s someone different with Jason’s touch on his skin—complete. In his boots, his toes curl at the feeling.   
  


The silence between them is charged. Dick’s never had his heart race in a way that makes it hard to breathe, not under the strictest of training regimes, nor during the deadliest of battles. “...Jason,” his voice is nearly a whisper and right now in this moment, he’s not the ever defiant, unorthodox Prince Richard Wayne of Gotham—he’s _Dick Grayson._ And it feels like it’s been forever and a day since he’s been ‘just Dick’.

A thumb sweeps over his lips, Dick feels his heart thrumming in his throat, “Your pulse doesn’t lie at all, does it?” Jason breathes, “I can _feel it_ , you know? I can feel every bit of you and every day I go without your bite on my skin is another day I spend lamenting.” His words sound like poetry, Dick wonders if they are. “Your eyes are as blue as the desert’s endless starry nights, your laugh windchimes on the spring breeze—with hair soft as the richest silks. I’d give you the moon itself if you asked it of me, Beloved, may Hati rip out my throat with his gaping maw.”

Everything around them falls into white noise, it’s as though Dick’s eyes can’t tear themselves away from those twin pools of intense green, Jason’s embers fill his lungs with every breath, the fire of his touch seems to burn and burn through his veins even worse than that first night they’d joined together.   
  


_He’s just felt so lost, and fought for so damn **long** ; giving into that touch is like coming home.   
  
_

“I’m not a prize to be won.” He says before his brain can think better of it, the words feel artificial even to his own ears. Dick can’t even muster the malice to make the jab stick.

“You’re not,” Jason agrees solemnly, grip tightening in his hands, “you’ve been mine since the world began and I’ll be yours just the same when Skoll devours the sun. My black wolf. My soul. _Ya Rouhi_ .” And Hel’s machinations, all Dick’s instincts wish to do, frozen in that moment is to just _give in—_ bare his everything, _take the bite_. Right here in these gardens, as twilight becomes night. Claim Jason Al Ghul as his and allow his white wolf to do the same in turn. 

Frighteningly, Dick finds himself leaning in first, closing the distance over the table, his lips just brush just shy of Jason’s, but Jason leans with him with lidded eyes and closes the rest of the distance. Something in Dick’s chest fractures as Jason’s hand rests possessively on his waist, _where the hidden ink is, Dick’s struck with the sudden urge to pepper the matching robin on Jay’s shoulder with kisses and—_

Just as Dick's starting to melt, he's violently brought back to reality with the sudden, unmistakable sound of shattering glass to his right, arms still locked around Jason’s shoulders, lips swollen red. They both look to the fallen glass of wine on the floor of the gazebo, the black liquid seeping into the floorboards, staining the offwhite wood. Dick feels like he’s run a marathon. All he sees is Jason at first when he finally returns his gaze, spies how impossibly close the other is, backlit by the lanterns of the garden as the sun slips below the horizon. If Dick were a lesser man, he'd reel Jason right back in for a second, no, a third, and a fourth kiss.

But that's not an option. He can't _allow it_ to register as an option. 

“I…” he swallows thickly, breath shuddering as he releases the alpha as though burned. His hands are still shaking. “I believe I’m going to retire for tonight, Gotham’s nights tend to run cold.” 

Jason is looking at him with a slight frown, hand still in his, seemingly ignorant of the flames he keeps lighting under his skin, driving away any and all of Dick’s inhibitions. “Yeah,” the man pauses, eyes flickering to Dick’s then down to their joined hands, and back again. “I can walk you back to your rooms if you wouldn’t mind it—”  
  
“ _I would mind it!_ ” Dick says quickly, while he puts a layer of measured distance between them, taking several pointed steps back. Jason’s eyes are unreadable. “I…” Dick rubs a hand over his temples, he feels strange as the haze lifts from him, _different_. “I-I mean, I’ll walk back alone. Thank you for the flowers.”

Jason stops him when he turns to leave, reeling him in ever so gently, a moment passes, as they both just pause a moment to _breathe_ ; all while falling ever, ever deeper into the other half's orbit. Dick almost loses himself in those eyes again, until Jason abruptly pulls away and offers up his arm wordlessly _(his omega mourns the loss of that immediate closeness, intoxicating though it be)._

“To the main palace grounds then, I’ll walk you there.” His words are neutral, but his arm tremors ever so slightly in apprehension. —Dick may not have even noticed if he hadn't been watching him so close.

Dick puts on his wayward glove, readjusting his cufflinks in silence, “That’s… permissible,” he admits stiffly, locking Jason’s arm in his as he rests a gloved hand on a mostly bare forearm, _he can still feel that heat, this is dangerous._

(The soft smile Jason offers him then, however, would make one think Dick just offered him the sun and all the stars in the night sky. It leaves him weak.)

Later that eve, back at the castle, Dick immediately requests a vase for the wildflowers; before he knows it they end up living on his work desk, vibrant and beautiful in their splatterings of color against the cool grays that seemed to perpetuate every corner of the palace. He takes to fingering the petals of that same lilac, in between sitting at his desk stamping documents well into that night. Deep down, he desperately hopes the blossoms last. However, a larger part of his waking brain is filled with _fear,_ a palatable fear towards his own loss of inhibitions, illustrated oh, so clearly this past eve, a fear of being just another weak omega, sold off and shipped to some far off unfamiliar place.

Most of all, he fears the person that may be left behind if he allows Jason Al Ghul’s flames to melt his ice.   
  


—Gotham has always had an obsession with strength, and Dick’s spent twenty years fitting and crushing himself into that mold. He had the medals and titles to prove it; had the scars that sung of twenty years worth of tribulations to declare himself worthy for this forsaken citadel. Allowing himself to 'bend' for an _alpha_ of all things would be nothing short of an insult to the trials he’s fought so hard to overcome, 'soul' or not. Call him childish, call him stubborn.

But see, Dick's _never_ been the type to follow a script to the letter, not even when he was a pup in a troupe of acrobats, and he wasn't about to start now.

  
☾

Ra’s and his entourage decided to stay through the Harvest festival before departing. There’s a strange culture clash in the palace, what with a pack that’s been feuding with the Waynes for generations residing in the unused northern wing. It’s only day three and Dick’s had to break up several disagreements between League vassals and the castle's servants, and about a dozen more between the knights in the yard and—to be frank—it’s getting exhausting. 

Dick has avoided his betrothed to the best of his ability, sticking almost exclusively to the training grounds and adjacent wings of the castle. Donna says he’s being ridiculous, that she’d had a quote: _Perfectly pleasant conversation with him in the halls about Themysciran literature and sonnets, Dick._ The information had surprised him at the time, though admittedly it still tracked in his brain, that Jason Al Ghul would be well-read. From what he’d researched, the League was well known for its interests in the arts and sciences as a collective. Even with the monstrous rumors that followed doggedly at their heels.

An undeniable part of his omega purrs at the thought of _SisterBetaHis_ being won over so easily by his ‘future mate’. 

It’s a very conflicting three days, and there’s ice in his lungs at the dinner table with Bruce’s unseeing eyes, and the pressure at his back with the weight of the entire castle pretending he’s always been nothing but a well-wrapped present to be given. (If he has to hear another maid tell him about how he should walk, or stand, or sit, he fears he may just have an aneurysm.) 

Alfred hasn’t changed much, though—and Dick’s relieved when he drifts down to the castle medbay for incense to find that Leslie hasn’t changed much either. He peeks around the corner of the open doorway in the east wing as the elder beta in question chastises a young squire over a knee injury; she inhales and pauses momentarily, before going right back to wrapping the boy’s knee.

 **“** Richard, more incense?” Dick smiles sheepishly as he takes a seat on one of the beds.

“Yeah, sorry Leslie.” He sighs as he leans back on his hands as the absolutely petrified squire staring wordlessly. He’s out like a shot as Leslie finishes off wrapping his knee and the old woman rubs at her lower back, shooting Dick a stern look.

“Have you been drinking the tea, I’ve recommended? The body needs more than—”  
  
“—‘Eight hours of sleep a night, especially for a high caliber omega your age, Richard’.” Dick finishes cheekily while she lifts an unimpressed eyebrow. She and Alfred were very much alike in their mutual worrying tendencies. Then again, Leslie’s the closest thing in this patchwork pack he had to a ‘grandmother figure’. 

Absently he kicks up his legs, “So, incense?”

“You should work less,” she says, as she crosses the room to fumble around in her own supplies for a pack of the scented incense in question, “working into the early hours of the morning isn’t good for your skin either.”

_If only it were that simple._

(But the thought of telling anyone about the dreams makes something within him recoil for some reason like he’d be betraying something deep and personal if he talked about it in a casual setting—he hadn’t even told Donna or Roy about the forest and the lilacs. He hasn’t even told _Clark._ )

Dick takes the incense gratefully as he gives the woman a firm hug, “And you won’t tell—”

“I’m not going to tell, Bruce, wild child, calm down.” She reaches up and pats his shoulder, “Now, run along. I’ve got an injured knight to treat on the way from a training accident according to the boy you scared off.”

With one last squeeze, Dick releases her with a weary smile, “Another one?” 

“Yes, I regret to inform you there are all kinds of conflicts—tensions aren’t helped by the fact that you and the League's alpha don’t seem to want anything to do with each other,”

Dick winces at that, “C’mon Les,”

“Don’t ‘Les’, me. You two are a key component to what’s going to make this alliance _work_ , and from an outsider’s view looking in—you seem unsatisfied in all but words by the Al Ghul’s offer.”

He groans, pressing his fingers through his bangs in frustration, _those_ were the rumors floating around? God forbid Dick takes a few days to process instead diving straight into acting like he’s fallen head over foot for a damned stranger, god forbid he get even an ounce of agency within this whole mess. “Look—it’s not like that it’s…” he starts short of saying the word ‘complicated’ for the tenth time in seventy-two hours, “... A delicate situation and I have some issues to work out.”

“Since when do you look before you leap?” Leslie asks, skeptical. 

Dick crosses his arms, slumps his shoulders, “It’s not him, I just…” gradually his voice drops to something near inaudible, “this isn’t how I pictured it—my future. And I guess I’m still having trouble accepting it. I’ve been spending my whole _life_ fighting this.”

All at once, the woman’s face softens as she rubs withered hands over his shoulders comfortingly, “Things’ll work out, they always do for good kids like you, Richard.” Dick dunks his head, a bitter smile on his face, “Sometimes the gods work in mysterious ways”

Dick barks out a bitter laugh at that, he waves her off, “Yeah, sure. I’ll… try and keep that in mind.”   
  
  


So... maybe Leslie was correct in her assumptions and he _has_ been avoiding Jason since the engagement ball and their following evening of courtship. But, admitting the problem is the first step to solving it, right? Dick gazes out at the courtyard from one of the palace’s terraces, eyes following a green-clad figure.

“Uh, your highness?”

He’s just close enough to see Jason’s laugh, his smile as he ruffles the head of a young pup and chatters with what Dick assumes is his sister from the ball—they both have the same nose, similar ears. It makes him wonder if they’re related. It’s strange, the pup looks just like Talia and someone familiar he can’t quite place and…

_“Your highness!”_

Dick startles and turns to face a young maid in training, her arms have a slight tremor to them holding up a heavy-looking tray of tea. It’s only then Dick realizes he’s taking up half the already small tea table with how he’s resting his chin in his hands, cheeks coloring he quickly lets them drop into his lap. The girl is a bouncy blonde around Tim’s age, she’s aiming to be his attendant one day if memory serves— _Stephanie, that was her name._

Across the table, Timothy rolls his eyes—he’s been silent these past couple days. Dick wishes he had the brain space to weasel out what was bothering the poor kid, but alas, surprise soulmates from an enemy pack took precedence. 

“Sorry, I was… distracted.”

“Mooning over your future fine-piece-of-ass of an alpha, you mean—?” Dick’s groans.

“Is this how the kids talk these days?” 

The girl shrugs, innocently, “I just tell ‘em how I see ‘em.” The way she speaks reminds him of Jason again—lower Gotham dialect. (Dick really had to stop thinking about Jason.) “If you just went an’ talked to him I feel like the rumors about you insulting the Al Ghul’s partner would stop.”

First Leslie, then Donna offhandedly, and now his little brother’s packmate-hopeful—it really just wasn’t Dick’s day. He plasters a sheepish smile on his face nonetheless and laughs it off like he always does. He returns to his efforts in prodding Tim into a proper conversation. Making a point of most assuredly _not_ looking down at the courtyard where Jason Al Ghul is chatting with his siblings animatedly, not even out of the corner of his eyes to admire how handsome the man is when he’s carefree.   
  


Jason catches him on day five when Dick’s on his way to the training grounds to try hacking away at yet another dummy stuffed with straw. He inhales a startled breath as fire licks up his spin from the solid grip on his bare wrist—it chases the cold feeling in his gut from the endless field of lilacs and the lack of white wolf to ease his loneliness. 

Their eyes lock, and he realizes the alpha before him in just a bit out of breath, chest heaving, as if he’d just sprinted to catch up.

“... I don’t even see you at the banquets.” Jason cuts in before Dick can think of what to say, "I look for you afterward, your brother comes but never you.”

Dick glances away, “I’ve duties to take care of during dinner, that’s all.” He shutters as those large hands cup his cheeks, immediately Dick takes a step back, breathing in as he presses his palms flat, keeping a measured distance between them. _Dangerous,_ his waking mind chants like warning bells. 

The alpha wraps his hands loosely around his wrists—the hold is laughably easy to break—but otherwise doesn’t press again. There’s a tight furrow in his brow as he draws circles with his thumbs into the insides of Dick’s wrists. “You’re not even in my dreams anymore,” he whispers, a tightness in his jawline, “I just… I _want_ to understand. If you can’t tell me what I did, I can’t fix it.”

“You didn’t do anything wrong,” Dick admits, closing his eyes to that imploring gaze.

“ _Bullshit._ ”

(Dick suddenly doesn’t know if he wants to laugh or cry at the absurdity of it all—everything he’s ever wanted and everything he’s _hated_ , all rolled into one man.)

“... Come watch me train,” Dick eventually says after a lengthy pause, “we’ll talk then.” He sees Jason’s demeanor relax minutely at that, but he still doesn’t let go of Dick’s wrist, as though he fears he’ll disappear at a moment’s notice. It makes leading him to the barracks a little troublesome, but Dick finds it probably works in their favor with all the eyes he can feel raising the hair on his nape all the way. 

Jason is still and silent as he watches Dick slash the stock of straw he’s quiet for so long Dick almost forgets he’s there observing. He’d expected a flurry of questions but had been met with few to none, as though the alpha was convinced even the slightest wrong move or word would drive him away. _(It makes Dick a little sour, knowing he might just have it on the money.)_ It’s a rare empty day without another soul in the grounds, which meant he could just let himself sink into the physical excretion, focus on the satisfying burn in his muscles, forget about all of his troubles and woes and pretend he won’t have to give this all up in a year.

“Your stance is immaculate,” the voice, despite being familiar, startles him out of his skin as Dick stops midswing, he doesn’t realize he’s panting until he bodily leans forward on his hilt, eying up the alpha warily. 

“Clark trained me personally, he’s the strongest in Gotham,” 

Jason inclines his head, “Your _father_ trained you?”

Dick blinks, “The king’s consort and the Royal Guards’ first commander trained me if that’s what you mean.” Jason watches him with clear eyes, humming absently.

“You had a great teacher, I keep on looking for openings to exploit but I can’t find any.” Dick’s stance softens up a bit as he turns to face the other fully. No one outside of family and pack has shown interest in this side of him, not without significant discomfort, even his teachers growing up had tried their damnedest to show their distaste for Dick’s ‘life choices’ at every turn. 

He racks his brain for League customs and disappointedly comes up empty. Gotham had only kept notes on military tactics, there was, unfortunately, little more about the culture and the expectations from dynamic to dynamic. Dick frowns a little, “You’d spar omegas?” 

Now it was Jason’s turn to blink owlishly, “Ma can toss me on my ass,” Dick snorts at the sheer vulgarity of the statement, “I’m pretty sure you can give me a run for my money yourself. I always thought Gotham stifled their omegas but… not you. You’re _incredible._ ” 

Oh.

Dick rubs the back of his neck, eyes flickering away from the genuine honesty he finds in that expression. Heat rises to his cheeks, as he goes back to slashing the stock dummy. “... I’m just swinging a sword, I’m much better in hand to hand."

A grin breaks those lips, “Well, whaddya know? So am I.” Dick arches up an eyebrow as he gets to his feet. 

“Is this an alpha posturing thing?” He jokes, offhandedly, a part of him is startled with how comfortable he already feels, after sharing just several lines of conversation. 

Jason shakes his head stretching out his arms over his head, back cracking audibly, “Nope. Just a friendly spar, I won’t even pin you,” then his smile gets a little more mischievous, “unless you ask me to, pretty boy.” Dick clears his throat, tossing his sword in the sand as he seriously considers the offer. He eyes up the alpha’s build in an accessing way, for the first time outside of the bedroom. Jason’s tall, about as tall as Bruce, with the muscle mass to back it up as well, near reminiscent to a brick wall—but that’s fine, he’s used to training with _Clark,_ and Clark is much bigger. 

(One friendly spar to keep his future-betrothed on his toes wouldn't hurt, would it?)

“Alright—the first one to get themselves tossed into the dirt loses, how’s that sound?” Something in his waking mind is sounding off again, about how bad an idea getting any closer to this man’s fire is, and yet every last fiber of Dick’s being never fails to drift right towards that flame. His eyes follow the motion of Jason slipping off his shirt, falling into a ready stance.

“I’m ready when you are.”

His blood is _singing_ , and Dick’s too elated to dwell on it for longer than a distant thing to be worried over later—because Jason Al Ghul can match him almost as well as _Donna_ and Dick hasn’t smiled like this during a spar since he was a child and Clark was only just teaching him how to throw a punch.

Dick whirls a kick into a solid unprotected side which Jason catches and uses the momentum in an attempt to throw him off balance. He lets himself fall backward before abruptly catching himself in a handspring, flipping right back on his feet and rushing back in. One of Jason’s punches almost gets him in the side of the head, Dick puts up his guard high and rolls with the blow—he dips low and attempts to sweep the other’s feet out from under him, Jason backs off with a slight hop in his steps, fists already up to block Dick’s next flurry of jabs. 

_Most alphas in the order hold back on him in spars, even Roy does on occasion—even if it’s a subconscious impulse._

Either way, they’ve been going at it like this for an hour, whether it be by way of being an even match or by design of their mutually competitive natures. 

Dick hears chatter from somewhere far off, but he’s pushing Jason back and he can’t afford to focus on anything else aside from all the ways he can put him flat in the dirt. He flows like water, weaving around Jason’s fist and almost landing a damn good blow to the center of his solar plexus. 

Jason catches his arm in a hold and locks it down, forcing them both to a halt—they’re chest to chest when Dick gets his foot locked behind Jason’s ankle, pulls sideways and _yanks._

They both go tumbling into the ground as a cloud of sand and dust kicks up with the rough landing. Dick is left out of breath laying on top of a broad chest as Jason heaves below him, he stops grappling, fingers gripping bare shoulders—Jason had stripped off his shirt around minute thirty. 

And, despite himself... Dick starts to laugh, low and deep as he rests his forehead against the shallow of Jason’s collar, with legs tangled together. He can feel the low rumble of Jason’s soon enough, “I haven’t felt this great in,”

“— _Ages_!” Jason finishes for him with an equally bright smile that makes Dick’s chest do a funny flip, “This felt incredible, the way hunting does. I’ve never...”

At once, they both realize how close they are, chest to chest, nose to nose, shirtless with sweat dripping down both their forms. _Just a few more centimeters..._ Jason’s hands are rested on Dick’s waist when Dick closes the short distance between their lips, brain fizzling out as he presses his fingers up through fluffy, chestnut curls. He’s clutched ever closer as he exhales against rough lips, rolling the bottom between his teeth whilst those calloused fingers smooth their way up and down his spine. 

In the distance, Dick’s ears, once more, pick up on a series of footsteps—they’re so close now that they send his brain into overdrive. It leaves him abruptly straightening up, ripping himself away from the enticing kiss, not so different from that night during the engagement ball or the following twilight in the garden. His hands are braced against that bare chest, fire licking at his skin, as Jason stares up at him with equally wide eyes. 

“ _Sweet—_ ”

“I have to go.” Dick blurts out in a harried rush as the voices grow closer, hopping to his feet and heading off in the opposite direction of the grounds. He feels a pair of eyes following his retreating back, he can’t bring himself to turn and see the betrayed look on Jason’s face. 

  
  


He removes himself from the situation after the incident. 

Jason ups his efforts to find him after their moment in the train grounds, Dick skirts his efforts sleek as an alleycat avoiding the offered hand, cowardly covering himself in perfumes, hiding himself away. It’s a big castle. Bruce used to go through hell trying to find Dick as an upset, temperamental eight-year-old—Jason didn’t stand a chance when Dick wanted to _really_ disappear. (It wouldn’t be hard, he knew the palace’s floor plan backward and forwards having been a curious kid at heart. He doesn’t even think Alfred knows all of the secret rooms and passages Dick does.)

The risk of being thrown off balance the way he was during their spar just wasn’t something he could bring himself to face. It’s as though the longer he stayed, the closer he lingered, the larger the risk of Jason throwing him off again—just like every time they collided. And there was nothing Dick hated more, mind you, than losing his balance. Losing his balance meant people bringing up his omega status, being anything less than perfect meant Gotham needed an alpha to train their armies, it meant he was _weak._

And that was just unacceptable. 

There’s desperation in the alpha’s stride however as he haunts the wings Dick frequents, persistent as a bull, as though every time Dick slips through his fingers, it only incentivizes his search. It makes something inside of Dick break, seeing Jason growing upset over the days that follow, especially when mostly he can’t so much as catch a trail. Dick watches from the rafters as Jason asks around to see if he’s still in the castle, he can’t bring himself to look as a crestfallen expression never fails to cross the alpha’s face when the answer is always ‘yes’. 

During a particularly memorable occasion, Dick startles the holy hell out of Stephanie when he hops over a window on the fifth level and hides out on the ledge when he’d heard Jason’s thunderous approach upon catching his scent through the layers of fruity perfumes and fragrance.

Bless the girl for falling into step immediately, pretending to dust nothing as Jason strode straight past without offering her more than a jerky nod of greeting. 

Upon climbing back through the window, he was immediately met with a judgemental frown, “You should really stop lying, Your highness. Your Alpha’s trying real hard, why don’t you just forgive him for whatever he did. My Mom used to always say that communication is crucial in a relationship.”

Dick had scrubbed a hand over his face in response, “How _old_ are you?”

“Unimportant,” She goes back to dusting absolutely nothing that Dick can see, it’s just a perfectly plain curtain. She’s using a feather duster on a _curtain_. “I’m a professional romancer—a guru, if you will, and it’s just a bit of friendly advice. Anything more would be a silver an hour.” 

(He swears Tim has the weirdest friends.)

☾

“Honey, I know you and Bruce are complicated but, well…” 

“What Don _means_ to say is that he’s a nice kid, it’s not his fault Lex Luther is a megalomaniac obsessed with making someone else’s soulmate miserable.” 

Dick is holed up in Roy’s room again with his packmates, having long run out of places to hide in the castle after a mere five days of him quote ‘removing himself from the situation’. It’s kind of impressive, really, Jason’s been getting better and better at focusing on what little scent slips through his perfumes. The omega in him purrs, Dick is just irritated. 

“What do you mean ‘kid’.”

Roy brings a hand of pseudo-astonishment on his face that has Dick’s shoulders curling inwards, “Oh, my, haven’t you heard? Congratulations—you’re breaking stereotypes, Rob, this time _you’re_ the omega almost a decade older than the betrothed in question,” Dick lets out a distressed noise, dragging his hands down his face.  
  
“Gods, I’ve trained _knights_ that young…” At least it explained Jason’s somewhat cocky attitude and his seemingly bottomless well of ability to be stubborn as a mule. Seriously, Dick’s had to sleep in some absurd places to avoid bumping into his husband-to-be, it was starting to get... Dramatic. As in camping out in the rafters of the palace storehouse ‘dramatic’. 

“Roy,” Donna minds, from where she’s grooming Wally’s bird’s nest of a head, “don’t be an ass.”

“I’m just being honest and he doesn’t exactly need _gentle_ right now—anyways you realize that I got this out of him in three minutes?” Roy pauses, “Also he’s fairly respectful, for not ripping my throat out, we had a weirdly pleasant conversation after I found him wandering the training grounds like a lost puppy,”

Something drops in Dick’s stomach, he lets his eyes drop, “... He’s still… _looking_ for me there? I haven’t been there since, uh.”

Four pairs of eyes shift to him at once, as Dick’s pause lingers for a beat too long, Donna releases her hold on Walls and inclines her head, thoughtful, “Hon, we’ll get it out of you sooner or later,” she starts, “and I have a feeling you won’t like the ‘later’.”

Turbulent blue eyes meet a pair of steady gray, a beat of silence passes between the two of them. _A silent exchange, a conversation wherein Donna reads the depths of his thoughts and the worst parts of him like an open book._ The moment breaks when Dick breaks the eye contact first, rubbing his palms into tightly squeezed eyes. 

“Fuck.” 

“Cursing at me will not get you out of this conversation, Dick Grayson.” The use of his former surname makes him weak. His shoulders slump as his cheeks color, until—finally—Dick lets out a long, suffering groan. He allows himself to fall back, right into the makeshift nest of furs and miscellaneous clothing articles—resigned to his fate.

“It’s complicated, can’t any of you allow me even a moment of peace?” And in pops Roy with his taunting grin that’s more like a grimace.

“Not a chance in all the rings of Hel’s maw, Rob. Now c’mon, outwith it—” Dick huffs a breath as Donna’s gentle fingers run through his hair, “we’re ‘running’ tonight. May as well just do this like a bandaid before your wolf does it for you.”

His pack is entirely too smug when he confirms their suspicions. Dick just wants the Harvest festival to come sooner rather than later so he has an actual reason to avoid Jason that _doesn’t_ feel like downright ‘malice’.

  
☾  


_When he dreams again they’re both on two legs, and Jason’s got his arms locked around his waist. His touch feels like fire. Stuck in that moment it feels like Dick’s never spoken a word in his life, and deep down he knows if he tries to speak even a word all that would come out is a wordless plea._

_Dick lets out a sigh as the other’s lips trail across the bare skin of his neck, mapping out more and more of his skin, his soul pulses in unison with its other half as that perfect mouth melds against his. Just the way a puzzle piece might.  
  
_

_Stay.  
  
_

_He says it without saying it, his lips don’t so much as mouth the words as large calloused hands, guide him down to lay in a sea of lilacs in reply.  
  
_

_—I miss you. Please just stay.  
  
_

(He wakes up crying again bracketed between Garth and Roy; his legs are asleep on account of Donna sprawled over them, Wally’s arm is heavy over his waist. But still, Dick feels so damn _cold_.)

☾

Three days before the Harvest Moon Festival, Dick is cornered by Alfred while sneaking out of the knights' barracks. He’s immediately dragged off to dinner with little mercy from the head butler along with an abolishment that amounted to: _Your highness, you’ll not avoid super every night for the remainder of the time you’re here, simply because you do not like the company—despite your misgivings, the Al Ghul’s are still our international guests._ The ominous glint in old omega’s eye had made the pup in him just fold—not that this was anything new, the looming dread lingering in Dick’s chest at the thought of seeing his ‘betrothed’ however briefly just seem to make the emotions increase by tenfold. 

His jaw clenches tightly, as he stalls in the hallway just outside the dining hall, eyes to the ground. Alfred softens up, a withered hand rests on his shoulder.

“My boy, you’re not facing Hel herself, you’re just facing—”

“The Demon head, his daughter, her spawns and,” his falters, “... the man I’ll be marrying.” The words feel both so right and oh, so, _wrong_ in ways that make his chest clench in apprehension. 

“It’s been almost two weeks, and you’ve only greeted them formally. It’s high time you’ve met them in a more… personable setting.” 

“They’re a clan notorious for their dirty mercenaries, Alfred.”

Alfred rolls his eyes, the traitor, “Well, perhaps we need some quote ‘dirty mercenaries’ to ally with given out current situation," (Gods he hates when his loved ones are right.) "Now chin up, you’d like to make a good impression wouldn’t you? If you must, then think of this all as—ah, what is it you always say?” He flinches as Alfred knocks twice on the oak doors, standing at attention.

Dick narrows his eyes as the dual doors begin to slowly creak inwards, “ _Alfred,_ ”

“ _Ah._ Yes, I remember: ‘taking a leap’?” 

Suddenly he’s met with seven pairs of eyes with varying levels of interest. _Jason’s halfway out of his seat_ , his brain can’t help noting, numbly. Dick straightens his back and bears it with a grin that’s more of a grimace by his definitions, _“This is cruel and unusual.”_ He spits through gritted teeth. 

“Keep in mind, I’ve not seen neither a hide nor hair of one of my grandchildren these two weeks, your highness. It's put me in a rather glum mood," he feels guilt twist in his gut with the admission, "It’s also one my jobs as head butler to make sure both you and His highness Timothy receive a perfectly balanced meal which I'm almost certain you are not getting at the knights' quarters,” Alfred’s lips twitch when Dick dunks his head, finally motioning him forward, “Now... your plate is waiting, dear boy.”  
  


Dinner is a tense affair, between Dick pretending that Ra’s and Talia’s very presence _doesn't_ send his internal warning bells running for the hills, and Jason’s intense glower that hasn’t wavered once, from the time of his 'dramatic entrance'—he’s long since lost his appetite. It’s not all _anger_ in that gaze, there’s more frustration than anything, as though Jason’s found a puzzle he can’t find the solution to. And Hel's maw, Dick can’t even say this is an asshole alpha moment considering that _he’s_ the one stonewalling the other over his own personal hang-ups here. 

He can feel his resolve fracturing bit by bit, chiseled away ever so gradually by Jason Al Ghul’s undauntable gaze. Dick’s never wished for a distraction more, as he staples his fingers against the table, looks away, because he knows deep down if he looks for too long he’ll burn—just like he almost did at the engagement party. (And that’s the kind of intensity that destroys kingdoms, annihilates inhibition. Prince Richard couldn’t afford to burn. Not for a single man. Not for an alpha.) This wasn’t even to touch on the way breathing in Jason’s scent in close proximity mixed with both his pack alpha’s _and_ several others wasn’t exactly the _best_ place for Dick to oh, so, valiantly beat back his omega’s instincts. 

Almost in sharp contrast to all of _that_ occupying the bulk of his attention, Tim’s taken to not meeting his eyes as of late, or well, it’s more like Dick’s only just started to notice how little Tim’s talking to him lately. It’s unsettling, Dick’s even tried getting his attention twice throughout dinner, between plastering on a smile and responding to Ra’s questions and focusing on anything other than Jason’s scent pulling him in just the same as a familiar lullaby.

He’s grateful Ra’s seems to be the more talkative in comparison to the rest of his ‘family’, despite the irrational distaste that runs through him every time their eyes meet.

“I’ve heard of your exploits in helping the Detective unite Gotham’s factions, Richard. I’m sure your diplomacy will prove to be a wonderful asset.”

“The ‘Detective’?”

He looks to Bruce with furrowed eyebrows, Bruce doesn’t so much as return his gaze, instead taking a bite out of his salad, “I used a moniker when I went traveling in my youth, I stayed with Ra’s and Talia’s pack for a spell, as I’ve mentioned.”

Dick arches up a fine eyebrow, feeling antsy under Jason’s eyes, a droplet of sweat crawls down his nape, he goes back to his lamb. “... Well, either way, I’d have to be if I were going to measure up to your best warrior. I’m no sneeze, myself.” Ra’s inclines his head from across the table, the motion is reminiscent to that of a snake, even Talia Al’ Ghul narrows her eyes. The pup to her left that’d been stabbing at his meats with a fork glances up. 

Dimly, he recalls reading somewhere that while the League favored knowledge they favored strength with an almost equal amount of fervor.

When Talia speaks her voice is smooth as accented maple with a sweet scent that ruffles Dick’s feathers a conflicting way, lips up ticking, “Oh? I presumed Gotham didn’t allow it’s omegas to fight; I’d almost given up hope that my son would have a worthy hunting partner.”

Dick doesn’t see as much as _feel_ Clark bristle from beside Bruce, his smile is more like a bearing of teeth, “I’m very involved in the army, actually,”

Bruce shoots him a warning look, Dick looks his fathersquare in the eye and keeps talking, “I have my own squadron. My Titans, I’ve trained each and every one of the recruits.”

“A bit unorthodox for a Gothamite omega from what I’ve read.”

“Well,” Dick shrugs, shoving away his plate, “some traditions are better off forgotten.” 

At the head of the table, the king tips back his wine glass draining it in several long impressive gulps, “What Richard means to say is,”

“—He’s also _very_ skilled in military strategy, even I’m impressed at points.” Clark cuts in brightly, lifting his eyebrows innocently when Bruce’s lip curls in a silent snarl, “In fact, he’s one of _our_ best.”

“Oh hoh, you mean combat-wise?”

Clark’s smile stretches wider before he launches into a spiel about Dick’s exploits, the distraction is much appreciated. Dick could feel himself getting angry. (God knows no one here wanted to be stuck in the middle of yet another match of passive-aggressive barbs between Bruce and him.) He takes a moment to school his heart rate back to normal levels.

“I think I’ll be retiring to my rooms now, it’s been a long day.” 

Beside him, Tim scoffs from under his breath, he hadn’t heard a peep from him all evening—Dick’s brows knit in subtle worry. But the teen moodily pushes the food around on his plate and doesn’t even lift his head, he opens his mouth to say something, but he’s brought to a pause by a prim, nasally voice.

“Your pack will be hosting a festival in a few days' time, correct?” Dick looks over at the boy, Damian, seated between his two siblings.

“Yes, the Harvest Moon festival.”

“The Equinox.” The other voice is quiet and accented, “You are. The wolf?” The sister—her name is lost on Dick—looks briefly frustrated at herself turning to Damian as she murmurs something that… certainly doesn’t sound like Arabic. 

“You said it correctly, Cassandra, it’s the Autumnal Equinox, well _Gotham’s_ version, anyway.” Damian clicks his tongue, even as a grateful smile blooms across the girl’s face. 

She offers a ghost of a smile and refocuses on Dick. “You are, the wolf.” 

Dick shifts his weight from foot to foot, “I guess you could put it that way, I’m the wolf every year… You play the same game in the League?” He finds himself pausing, despite how relaxing Jason’s scent feels as he lingers, letting his guard down. 

Cassandra’s eyes seem to sparkle as she nods eagerly, “I am _our_ wolf. Very fast.” 

“The league allows their alphas to be their ‘wolves’?”

“We celebrate the hunt, _not_ the harvest.” Damian gruffs, arms crossing, “Don’t tell me you aren’t aware of something so fundamental about the pack you will be marrying into?”

Despite himself, Dick can’t help chewing his lip to bite back a smile—there was just something so undeniably precocious about that high-voiced child attempting to dress him down like a sarcastic noble. “Well, not exactly, I just...don’t know much about the League’s customs. There’s not exactly much in Gotham’s libraries, we keep more medical texts.” 

The kid's head tilts ninety degrees and Dick feels his heart melt, just a little bit as Damian immediately launches into an impassioned rant about the importance of tradition and his responsibility to quote: _properly research, in preparation for foreign guests._

(This must be a common occurrence, as Ra’s and Talia break off to continue their semi-interrogation of Clark while Bruce rubs his temples.) 

_He should really leave._

Dick’s been standing for at least several minutes now, but… well, he’s always been fond of meeting new people, of giving everyone the benefit of the doubt until they gave him _reason_ to doubt. Nevermind that one of his very core morals was directly tied to 'fairness', from the way he chose his friendships to recruitment for his squadron. And thus, just as well, it wasn’t very _fair_ of him to stonewall the rest of his future secondary pack family just because he didn’t know how to handle a little heat… now, was it?

_Fuck._

Warily, he sinks back down into his chair, and starts up the conversation again—it’s a very informative discussion about how the League observes the seasonal festivals, being in a mostly desert climate. Dick likes Cassandra ( _she prefers Cass_ ) and Damian he finds, far more than he’d been expecting to. A part of him is ashamed that he’s stalled so long for getting to know them, because they’d be departing back to the deserts soon after the festival, leaving Jason behind to court for a year. 

“Are… all of you Talia's... kin?” Dick asks, after a moment of hesitation, stopping just short of using the word 'spawn'.

Cassandra pauses, “Blood works differently in League. Strength trumps blood,” carefully, she inclines her head, “But little wolf is blood. My blood.” she places a delicate hand on Jason’s shoulder which slowly relaxes in response to the touch, Dick can’t help following the action. 

“Don’t call me 'little wolf', I’m not _ten_ anymore, Cass.” Jason’s eyes shift away to focus on his sister, and suddenly Dick has control again, as he glances down to focus on his plate.

“Still little wolf.”

“By eleven months.” 

Damian rolls his eyes from Cassandra’s other side, “Can you two _please_ conduct yourselves, we are here as diplomatic representatives,”

 _Oh_ , it clicks and at once, he blinks, _they’re including him._ Dick can’t even complain, he’d do the same for Tim in the same situation after all. He waits, he observes, before cautiously rejoining the conversion, bouncing off of something said by Damian about diplomacy. 

Dick ends up staying through dinner, the scent of spice still sends his nerves alight, the lingering memory of wandering hands still reminds him of the flames—but he keeps his head, keeps his sanity. Swallows around the feel of endless pinpricks on his skin. Across the table, Jason’s got his hand tight around a salad fork, expression blase, and unassuming aside from the tick of a clench in his jaw. They talk less to each other and more around each other, Dick shoots a question at Cassandra, which sometimes pops off from Damian then back to Jason. 

(Throughout the entire exchange, Tim sulks in his quiet undeniably _Tim-way_ , Dick makes a mental note to actually sit down and talk to him later.)

Dick is the first to retire from the banquet table, as soon as everyone’s plates have been cleared and Jason looks to him as though he might say something more. 

He flees again, speeding out of the hall like there are hounds at his heels.

Stopping abruptly in the middle of the halls on his way back to his rooms, Dick exhales a shaky breath, oddly enough he can still scent the aroma of embers and spice, all around him. —Outside the window he’s braced against, the looming spires of Gotham are bathed in the moon’s silvery light; he’d almost call them beautiful if his chest didn’t feel so damn twisted up every time he looked out at the home he’d leave in less than a year’s time. Dick stares at the view for a long moment, memorizing it, lamenting—until suddenly, he feels a pair of palms slam against either side of the window frame near his head.

He visibly jumps whirling around, only to find himself face to face with a pair of burning emerald eyes. _Jason._ A shudder wracks his spine. It feels like it’s just been so long since they’ve been this close, it’s enough to turn his knees to straw. Dick’s eyes flicker down, and then away when the silence between them stretches on. 

“...Sorry, I need to—”

“‘ _Stay’.”_ Dick freezes, face draining of color, “You told me. Two nights ago in the lilacs, you _told_ me.” 

“... Now, why would I do a thing like that?” He murmurs, voice subconsciously softening up as Jason’s lips brush against his, eyes unwavering.

“If you keep pretending you’re going to start believing your own lies one day.” Another jolt shoots up his spine as Jason knits his fingers together at the small of his back, having ridden up his shirt just enough to get at the bare skin at some point or another. Dick blinks white out of his vision as Jason pulls him in closer.

_(Dangerous.)  
_

Firmly, Dick pushes away from that warm chest he just wants to burrow into and make his home in, from those arms that only promised safety and comfort. (He couldn’t— _wouldn’t_ be weak, not for anyone ever again. _He closes his eyes, remembers the snap of his parent’s rope, remembers the numerous betrayals over the years rising in the knights ranks and… he_ **_can’t_** _._

“I’m tired,” he says, the words sound foreign on his lips, stripped of emotion, of _everything_ , “I think I’ll retire for the night, your highness—I do hope the lamb was to your liking.”

This time, when he leaves Jason doesn’t follow him, but Jay’s hint of spice? It lingers, all the way into Dick’s very own bed, well into his dreams. 

☾

_They’re both on four legs, this time. Curled up beside each other in an endless sea of lilacs, one of them with a coat like a midnight sky, the other with one as white as snow. Two parts of the same whole. A tried and true pair._

_Dick cannot tell lies in the dream. He can tell even less as a wolf, so he doesn’t even try. He gives in to the temptation to burrow into that reassuring hearth, that heat; he almost wants to weep in relief when it chases away the ever unrelenting chill in his chest._

_“Stay.” He says without speaking, as Jason’s head nuzzles against his neck, even in the dream Dick can still feel the pleasant sensation of the alpha’s scent mixing and intertwining with his own._

_“Always.”_

☾

Those three days pass him by in a blur, much like the weeks leading up to the engagement ceremony. —Jason had stopped actively looking for him after that night and the dreams had stopped along with it. He almost prefers waking up in the mornings crying over the frozen emptiness he feels, rather than the _void_. The flurry of the festival had served as the kind of distraction he was grateful for, between the maids fussing over his ceremonial makeup, and the bath treatments and the castle preparations, Dick’s had little time to think about the lack of _anything_ in his life, let alone Jason or his conflicting emotions about his betrothal. 

(Roy had the sense to stop teasing him about it at the very least, he has the distinct feeling that Donna had given all the boys a general warning because Dick hasn’t heard so much as a peep part from the odd look here and there.)

“Dick? Are you ready?” 

Tim walks in on Dick when he's in the middle stretching out all of his limbs sighing in relief as his spine cracks audibly. In the entryway of the changing room, Tim makes a complicated face. “Course I am, Timmy! I need to be all limbered up for my final time playing the wolf this harvest.”

Tim hums and drifts closer to adjust the bells on his cobalt cloak, “... I guess,” his voice has a note of melancholy that makes the smile on Dick’s face waver. He recalls a lonely boy, once again, following dutifully at his heels, with big wary eyes and a tangible curiosity. The nostalgia feels like a lump in his throat as Dick swallows. 

“Hey… _hey,_ no long faces, little brother. The Harvest Festival is supposed to be a _joyous_ celebration, remember?” He gives Tim’s shoulder a little jostle until the younger glances up at him through a curtain of fine bangs, Dick absently brushes them aside.

“C’mon Tim, _talk to me_. I know I’ve been in my head a lot lately but I’ve got a moment now—so just shoot.”

Tim groans out loud, dragging both hands down his face, “Why don’t _you_ talk for once?” And Dick… freezes, for just a moment too long, brows furrowing as he lets his hands slip from that slight shoulder.

“What?”

“See!” Tim rips away, throwing his hands up in the air, “That’s your problem! You don’t talk to anyone, you _never_ talk, or ask anyone for help—you didn’t even think to ask me to take your _place_ , even though being Gotham’s king has always been your goal! Clark would’ve fought for you, you know how he feels about arranged marriages,” Dick feels a little numb, finding himself at a loss for words (he notices the glassy sheen of Tim’s eyes and his heart just drops). “You never say what’s important! You’ll rail against B about everything else but when it comes to your life you just! Give in! So you don’t make trouble, even though you’d be a much better king than _me_ of all people. What was Bruce _thinking..._ ” The outpouring of frustrations lasts for an inordinate amount of time as Tim rants on and on about how he _could’ve at least asked, Dick_ and a whole lot of _Gotham_ **_needs_ **_you’s._ In a bit of a daze, Dick wonders how he’s held it all in for weeks—he should’ve noticed, even if Tim’s a quiet kid. 

_(Stupid, always too wrapped up in your own shit to pay attention to the people that matter.)_

By the end of it Tim’s bright red and breathless as he pants heavily, breath shuddering as he scrubs the cotton of his dress shirt over red-rimmed eyes, “And… _hell…_ what am _I_ supposed to do when you’re gone, Dick? Did you ever even think of that?” And Tim sounds so lost then that any and all words of comfort he’d been preparing over the last twenty minutes or so just scurry their way to the back of Dick’s all the way down to his gut and just _die._

A long period of silence overtakes the two of them, for a while, there’s just the hustling bustle of the palace just outside the dressing room, prepping for the festival later in the evening, and Tim’s ever so subtle sniffles and the occasional hitching inhale. Mind made up, Dick takes a step forward, then another then pulls Tim into his arms as his brother promptly stiffens. 

  
“... What… are you doing...?” mumbles a muffled, downright miserable voice.

  
“It’s a _hug,_ Timmy. I’m hugging you.” 

  
“Didn’ ask for a hug” Huffing a laugh at the disgruntled tone, Dick scents the top of a bowed head tucking Tim further under his chin as the younger just sort of slumps against him.

“Mmhm. I know,” he continues, “But it feels like you need one, right now.”

Slender arms wrap around Dick’s middle as those unbearable hitching breaths slowly begin to fade off into nothing, Dick starts a low comforting rumble in his chest as Tim’s grip tightens. “... It should’ve been me,” he eventually admits, “not you. Never you. You’re _important_ , you have a pack outside our family, an order of knights that’d follow you off a cliff,” 

“No one’s more important than anyone else, Timmy.”  
  
“That’s a load of—”  
  
 _“Language.”_

Dick rests a cheek atop his kin’s head, humming faintly under his breath, “It was _always_ going to be me, Tim. I wouldn’t _let it_ be anyone else. Bruce knows that. Clark knows that. And despite what I might say…deep down I know it too.”

He pulls back, gives the kid’s cheek an affectionate pinch, Tim looks wholly unimpressed and silly with his swollen eyes and deepening frown, “ _Dick—_ ”

“Believe me, I would’ve probably staged a coup if Bruce tried to barter you away,” his tone is light and easy, even if he’s (mostly) serious, “I was genuinely the best option here.” 

Tim just shakes his hard, something sour and citrus-like fills Dick’s lungs when he breathes in, “... You’re not gonna get caught this year are you?”’

Dick’s lips twitch upwards, offering his brother a surly wink, “And break my twenty-year streak, Timmy? Not a chance.” 

☾  
  


As much as Gotham’s Festival of the Harvest Moon was one of the kingdom’s oldest most engraved traditions, it was also known far and wide, a variation often celebrated in the neighboring countries. The festival often had several recurring themes: the worship and thanks given to Nehalennia, the wolf goddess of the harvest, excessive drinking of flavored mead and ales, and finally, a large community feast. (Granted, Dick’s heard the event tended to be significantly more ‘homely’ in the other smaller towns who stick closer to the regional rituals and ceremonies.)

In his travels as a child, fuzzy as the memories grew with age, what Dick remembered most were the cites Mr. Haley’s caravan would travel through during mid-festival. He remembers the colorful reds and golds of Keystone’s Harvest, the forest greens and dark grays of Star’s, even Metropolis’ vibrant maroons and blues. Call him biased, but he’s always found the festival’s origin city more beautiful than all of them put together; there’s just something about the way the streamers of twinning blues and silvers line every last street in Gotham, from the richer districts all the way down to the slums. For once, the often dark and dreary atmosphere of the Gothic citadel is prettied up with lanterns and animated chatter from her normally just-as-dreary residents. 

Though the festival’s grown bigger over the years with Gotham’s rising population, and while a few of the more conservative aspects of the tradition have been lost over the years, there're still many customs and echoes of a bygone past that just can’t be erased. One of these unmovable fixtures, for example, being a festival wide ‘hunt’ that any citizen could participate in, no matter their dynamic, walk of life, or social status. 

‘Catch the wolf.’

It was something of a party game to kick off the festivities. The rules had stayed just the same for generations: the hunted ‘wolf’ must be an omega shifter set to play the role of the ‘Goddess Nehalennia’ whom the festival is honoring; the omega in question must disguise one’s self as not to be caught easily; the omega must wear the bells of fertility on their person at all times in remembrance of the harvest goddess; in the event of being caught if the omega should be harmed in any way, the win will be deemed void; in the event that someone catches the omega before the end of the time limit of three hours and successfully delivers the ‘wolf’ to the king, they will receive a kiss of blessing to ring in the harvest. 

Dick has played the ‘goddess’ for the past twenty years running. It’d started when Bruce had presented it as an outlet when he was a pup, not yet a presented omega, granted, but a king had some leeway, especially one’s as well-loved as Bruce and Clark. And, in the citizenry of Gotham’s defense—Dick had been a _very_ slippery child. 

Through ceasefires in conflicts, through rain or snow, he’d never once been caught by alpha, nor omega, even a beta with the strongest nose. He’s much too agile after all, combined with his acrobatic roots, alongside a competitive streak a mile wide.—There’d been a memorable year in his early teens when he’d run along the rooftops to avoid his pursuers, described later by baffled citizens to be ‘limber as a cat’, hopping and flipping from Gotham’s closely built roofs well into the third hour. The lower-income citizens tended to be better sports about it than the nobility, much to Dick’s endless amusement, he always loved putting on a good show. 

(Granted, a certain daughter of a knight general had gotten fairly close last she participated when Dick was sixteen. But Barbara was busy these days as a foreign ambassador in Star, he still looks forward to her letters.)

Needless to say, it’s the one time in the year Dick is reminded of his home. His _first home_ , back when he was ‘Dick Grayson’ as opposed to ‘Richard Wayne Prince of Gotham’. 

Which of course, is why he’s determined to round off his standing record with a bang for his final festival as a genuine resident of Gotham. Dick slips out the back gate of the castle, crouching down to stretch his legs—his entire pack was in town for this last festival, he’d need to find a damn good hiding place this year, the rooftops were a no go, unfortunately, because Wally and Roy were a terror when they teamed up together, Donna was a stellar tracker and Garth’s skills when it came to scrying were downright ungodly.

Well, Dick never liked ‘easy’ anyways, it was overrated, call it the lupine blood in him, but he's always loved a damn good chase. 

He loops his way around the backwoods of the forest—when he breaks the line of trees, he keeps low with a hand to the corrugated stone of Gotham’s walls to reenter the city. Dick can hear the celebrations and chatter of the festival in the distance as he slips into the crowd, enveloped in perfumes, dressed in the unassuming grays and black cotton of Gotham’s common populace. In the distance, a flare shoots into the air near the center of the town square. 

Dick sinks into the shadows of the city’s dark and twisting alleyways. For the first time in a week, he’s not preoccupied with the haunting of emerald eyes and a quicksilver smile, he and his wolf are focused on a task, finally one in their singular effort to play the ‘prey’ and keep clever in this festival’s game. 

His ears are open to the sounds of the Gotham with her whispers and enticing scents when he starts to run—Dick flips his way onto a street-level rooftop and darts across it with his rose-patterned cobalt cloak trailing behind him. When the people searching the streets hear the ringing of his bell when he leaps over the shadowed ledge and onto another, Dick’s swift to hasten behind one of the houses' chimneys, heart in his throat as he inhales for a moment and just waits.

(He’s trembling with lingering adrenaline at the threat of almost being caught, a hand clutched around the bells fastened at his neck.)

When the suspicious voices fade off Dick allows himself to slide down the roof’s shutters again, and into a shadowed alleyway between another pair of crooked buildings. —Because see, Gotham was like a maze. Her alleyways were all twists and turns, with nary a place to find your way out if you lost your way, but Dick knows her just as well as the back of his hand. Because Dick’s spent summers dragging Roy and Wally around to help him map every nook and corner. 

Really, the rooftops were all about the spectacle—within the hour Dick’s grown confident enough to start popping up in more places with a tease of the velvet patterning of his cloak in the crowd. 

_“Someone’s seen him on the rooftops, keep your eyes to the sky.”_

His ears prick up at the words and he clicks his tongue in disappointment, skidding down the roof in his boots and slipping into one of the alleyways. He waits. He listens, pulling up his hood as the bells twinkle with the movement.

 _“There he is!”_ The voice comes from the opposite mouth of the alleyway, a group of street children points at the black velvet of his roses in excitement. Dick offers a quick smile and melts into the crowds of the festival just as easily as he had the shadows of the alleyway. It’s easy this way, hiding the telltale flash of his eye shadow as he jaunts through the decorated streets and the smiling faces and just… forgets his troubles, just for a little while. He spends the hour tipping vendors for sweetbreads and their silence in spotting ‘the benevolent goddess’. 

_“He’s in the crowds, I’ve seen him,”_ These voices are husky and boisterous—alphas, and nobles at that judging by their clothing, much less fun to mess with than pups. He rolls his eyes skyward and bids another vendor _adieu_ with a half-eaten roll between his teeth before he melts into another crooked alleyway to avoid the group in question. As he’s walking, finishing his pastry, burly arms attempt to close around him from a gap in the darkness, and Dick drops like a sack of grain, smooth and easy with a cocky grin as yet another group fails to tackle him. He takes to the rooftops again. Dick would readily admit the game’s ‘predators’ have grown smarter over the years, hunting him in packs is usually the best way to spot him, after all. Yet, twenty years of experience playing the goddess with no one sans the knight commander’s daughter so much as touching his cloak was certainly no reputation to underestimate.

His pack, however, gets _very_ close this time around. Not that Dick would expect anything less.

Dick takes one look over his shoulder during the horn signifying the second hour, only to see Wally Goddamn West chasing after him on the rooftops, barefoot with that familiar cocky grin on his face—Dick’s still in boots. 

“We’ll tag you yet this year, Rob.” 

_“Hel,”_ Deeming the effort of using the rooftops once again a loss, Dick flips his way off one of the ledges, using a flag pole to spiral his way down to the _oos_ and _ahs_ of the festival below. Then he just takes off running. Donna appears at his side, sudden and startling, hair pulled into a smart ponytail, dimples showing on her face. 

“Hey, honey—how was the weather up there?” She makes a grab for him Dick drops low, heart hammering as he weaves left, ducking past her and into the crowd again. 

“Just fine, Don! The air’s _really_ great tonight,” he calls over his shoulder with a grin as his packmate clicks her tongue with a pout.

Roy and Garth waiting around the next corner, Dick skids into an alleyway at the last minute when he realizes that they haven’t seen him yet. —This entire operation reeks of either Roy or Donna, he’s not sure which one probably both in tandem, but the underhanded tactics _certainly_ lean him more towards Roy. Dick drags his cloak back up over his head and makes his way through the narrow pathways as the energetic sounds of the festival fade. He makes his way deeper and deeper into the heart of Gotham, surrounding himself in her shadows and embrace as he avoids the rooftops and the prying eyes of the crowds as he darts in the streets between. This time when Dick steps out of the maze of alleyways he’s in an area of old Gotham, with the crumbling statues without the lights of the festival. 

It’s a place that’s been long forgotten, as Gotham has gotten bigger and its residents have gotten newer and older. Dick sees a decrepit chapel that brings a smile to his face as he transverses his way through the moonlight, eyes, and ears open for the slightest hints of movement. A smile grows on his lips— _the perfect hiding place_.

The temple is open-air, with pillars lining its exterior, allowing the silvery light of the harvest moon to stream in from all corners. Dick makes his way down the small set of stairs and just takes a moment to catch his breath. At the end of the temple, there is a stained glass window with the pattern of a rose—one of the goddess’s old temples then. _How suitably thematic._ He breathes in and feels himself melt a little, the entire temple smells _nice_ , not at all like the distinctly musty smell that seemed to perpetuate the whole of Old Gotham. It’s a nice change, a comfort.

Either way, this was the last hour, if he could just stay hidden for the remainder of the time limit, Dick would be home free for his twentieth year in a row and so would his record. His heart rate begins to slow, and Dick rests his shoulder against one of the temple’s pillars to rest and bask in the scent he can only assume is the Goddess’ blessing. Until just then with his guard fully down, a pair of solid arms lock their way around Dick’s waist. It startles him out of his skin as he shoots up, squirming against the grip like a wild animal caught in a hunting trap, he's spitting and hissing as he soon realizes there's no give in the hold.  
  
Unceremoniously, he’s swiftly spun around and raised into the air. Dick’s heart is in his throat as he scrambles for purchase on broad shoulders, further curses on his lips, and… he’s met with a fox-like grin of mischief. Dick blinks, then blinks again as his brain tries and fails to register the out of place visage of Jason Al Ghul.

“Oh? Looks like I caught the wolf.” That voice is low and amused as always, it sends a tremor running down Dick's spine.

  


Dick’s mouth opens and closes for a moment—righteous offense twisted up with wounded pride shoots through him alongside the dawning realization that he'd been 'caught' so thoroughly. “... _Why are you here?_ ” Then after an unimpressed pause, “... Put me down.”

Jason shrugs. “I’m participating. Can’t let someone else give my fiance a kiss now, can I?”

He lets out an incredulous laugh that’s just a touch too seated in irritation to be joyous, “How did you even _find_ me? Not even my pack can find me when I’m this layered in scents.”

“And yet I did. —I felt a pull if you must know, and my legs led me here," Jason admits, far too offhandedly, "gotta say though you're a hard man to find when you don't want to be, pretty boy. If I didn't know any better, I'd think you loathe to see me." 

Dick snarls wordless noise of frustration, hands dragging themselves down his face, “ _No_ —I mean... you literally can’t get to this part of Gotham without _knowing how_ there are like ten twists and shortcuts you have to learn.” 

“I used to live in Gotham… before.” He offers, vaguely—and Dick’s starting to get _really_ sick and tired of 'vague', honestly.   
  
Again, Dick frowns, “Put me down.”

Jason stops then a frown flickers on his lips and Dick’s stomach does a foreboding little twist. “... You’ll run again.” 

“So what? It’s a part of the tradition,” he tries, as Jason rolls his eyes.

“You know _damn well_ that’s not what I mean,” the sharp tone is enough for Dick to look away, “Why does it seem like no matter how hard I try, how much I try and hold on, I can’t seem to get a grasp on you…? Every time I manage it, it's like I’m not just not good enough and you disappear like a puff of smoke. I hunted a damn _tiger_ to impress you, you don’t so much as mention it—”

“... What.”

He’s met with a dry look, “I wore the pelt of a golden tiger to our first official courting, do you think that’s just. _A thing_ people do?”

Dick blinks owlishly, blindsided, “I… thought that was just a part of your wardrobe”

“ _It was a courting gesture.”_

“Maybe didn’t come to mind! You _do_ understand, I was kind of distracted by you taking me straight to bed as soon as we were alone…? Not to mention kissing me silly every time we got within a meter of each other,” Dick says, suddenly feeling defensive, “How was I supposed to know!?”  
  


Jason tightens his grip, voice and face twisted into a snarl: _“Try!”  
  
_

Dick winces and falls eerily silent, _Couldn’t argue there._ (He’s certainly tried harder with Jason’s siblings than he actually has with Jason.)

The alpha’s tone drops then, a furrow in his brow as he falters. It’s the first time Dick’s seen him unsure between all the kisses and the fire lighting him up inside, “...How am I supposed to win this game if you won’t even give me a fighting chance, Dickie?”

Despite it all, Dick’s heart breaks for the self-depreciation reflected in those emerald eyes. Tentatively, he rests a hand over one of Jason’s wrists, “I never meant to—” Dick swallows the words, because he _had,_ hadn’t he? He’d meant to fight Jason every step of the way. “It’s just… been hard to process.” His words are short and stilted as he drowns, he bothers at his bottom lip for a moment, “There's eyes on me _always_ , bending to you would be," Dick's expression twists slightly, "...being an omega in Gotham is _complicated._ ” Jason stares at him, long and hard for a few beats, before carefully he sets him down. 

“You keep _saying_ that. So much it’s starting to sound like an excuse.” Dick can’t meet his eyes, though he does shudder at the flames that lick his skin when Jason brushes his bangs from his face, gentle as can be, “Is it me?”

He huffs out an empty sort of laugh and leans into the hand, holding it up to his face, _“No._ Of course, it’s not you, Jason, _gods,_ ever since meeting you my omega hasn't stopped singing. It's just…” and he swallows, tottering off.

“Complicated.” Jason finishes again, tone scathing.

But Dick can only shrug helplessly, struck with a senseless urgency when he feels Jason’s hands go a little slack in their previously firm grip. It’s as if the other is slipping further and further away with every vague statement, every noncommital word, and there's something in his brain despairing at the mere _thought_ of his white wolf letting him go for good and… fuck. When had _that_ mental switch happened? 

_“You’re like an inferno,"_ Dick blurts out before he can think better of it, “You-you fill up each and every piece of what makes me, _me._ Just by breathing in my damn _presence_ , and I don’t know what to do with that Jason." His voice is unsteady and Jason's eyes are wide in surprise as that grip hesitates before reeling him in closer again. "You're warm as a hearth and I've _never_ wanted anything more in my life, every moment I spend with you the ice chips away bit by bit until I can't even _think_ right, and..." Finally, his words start to slow and Dick casts down his gaze, anxious fingers twist in the fabric of Jason's collar.

"What... what happens if I’m not the same person by the time the ice melts away? If I'm filled up with so much of your fire that I don't even know _myself_ any longer...?” _What if everyone he's ever loved hates what's underneath all the layers?_ He feels a grounding hand tangle in his own, before he repeats again, in a quieter voice: “I don’t know what to _do_.”

“Then you'll just have to cool me down, till you figure that last part out. Hel, you think _I_ know what to do with _you?_ ” Jason huffs a breath that's close to incredulous, and presses their foreheads together then, with something raw and wretched in his eyes. There's wetness stinging in Dick's own for some reason, he blinks it away, “You’re… _‘_ cold’, ain’t you? I can feel it—you can feel me too, I _know_ you can.” Something in his voice is so undistinguished and just imploring, it about steals his breath away.

Dick exhales faintly, subconsciously pressing closer still; he answers with the words that have been stuck in the back of his throat since the dreams started. _It’s not surrender,_ he minds, as he rolls his bottom lip in between his teeth, _it's **not.  
  
**_ "I can. _Feel you,_ I mean." And Jason's gaze is smoldering. Intense, and alight with the attentions of a predator on the hunt, “... and you’re _always_ burning up.” His voice starts out slow and halting, recalling the impressions from his dreams, recalling _Jason_. “Burning so much _you’re_ afraid you’ll up and turn to ash, just disappear one day. With no one left to say your name.” That hand tightens in his, Dick buries his face in Jason’s collarbone, breathes in that hint of spice and embers, and he stays just like that, drinking in the alpha’s reassuring presence. "-But I'd say it, I _want_ to say it. Forever and ever, until Hati devours the moon and even after that." Jason crushes him tightly to his chest, the press and hearth-like warmth of the alpha's form makes something deep and primal within himself just want to curl his entire body up against Jason and _purr_. And, for the first time, Dick can’t help but wonder—just how does _he_ feel to Jason?When he voices the thought out loud he’s offered up a bemused smile, like Jason still can’t convince himself that he’s real and finally in his arms. 

“You're like frigid ice cutting into my bones. Every touch leaves me with pins and needles, just a trace of my lips on your skin is enough to leave the whole of my body a buzz," he scoffs a disbelieving laugh, freehand pressing upwards along Dick's nape, "when I kissed your hand for the first time, I thought I'd been _poisoned."_

Dick rolls _that_ little admittance over in his brain for a moment, stomach somersaulting when he realizes how rather similar the description to his own, “I don’t… understand. Is that not exhausting?" Jason instigated touch far more than Dick could ever work up the courage to, after all. "Why keep throwing yourself into a blizzard if all there's to gain is frostbite?”

“Who knows? Maybe I _like_ a little frostbite in my life. Perhaps I crave it.” Jason hums, a ghost of a smile on his lips, “Besides, I could ask the very same thing about you and ‘burning’, pretty boy … And, I think your answer’s probably the same as mine anyway, isn’t it?” It’s less a question and more of a challenge, Dick rests his eyes for a moment, as he whispers his answer into the deepest depths of his soul.

_Addiction._

“Love your ice, Dickie, couldn't want for anything more if I tried…” Jason leans forward, lips teasing against Dick’s scent gland, steady hands drifting down to his hips, “-Let me?” His tone is so soft, so vulnerable then, it's enough to catch Dick off his guard _(if there were even a sliver of it left)._

Dick tips his head up and meets Jason halfway, and it's like he just can’t seem to _stop._ Jason presses him into one of the stone pillars as Dick groans against him, rising up on his heels and deepening their kiss. The familiar flames lick at the edges of his fingertips when Jason slides off both of his gloves so they can be as skin to skin in the Goddess’ chapel as they dare; he welcomes the heat, it’s intoxicating, intense—every inch of passion Dick’s ever yearned for these past ten days. 

He’s dipping into Jason’s open shirt just _touching_ after what feels like forever and a day of separation; feeling up his back, his abs, his shoulders, whilst Jason gets to work unclasping the bells holding his cloak over his shoulders. The fabric slips from his shoulders and pools onto the aged marble floor, the moonlight streaming into the temple blurs and fades into nothing, until all that fills Dick’s world is the fragrance of spice and embers, along with Jason’s fire. 

In the distance, Dick’s ears pick up the sound of a distant horn. He’s got his dress pants half pulled down, forced to halt where his boots begin just over his knees. His fingers tremble in Jason’s brunette curls as the alpha trails his lips along his thoroughly marked-up thighs thrown over broad shoulders, nipping at the bare skin. —The horn’s cry should be important, at least he _thinks_ it should, but it’s like all of his nerves are short-circuiting with every touch, every loving caress. Dick attempts to keep his breathing calm and controlled as Jason sinks two fingers into his hole, murmuring about _how wet he is in a holy place, how pretty, how shameless for him._

“The chase is over...” Dick remembers suddenly with a start, before sighing with a hitch to his words, head falling back against the stone pillar Jason’s got him propped up against. —There’s a chill in the air but Dick can’t register even a hint of it, though a stray breeze wafts through his hair reminding him it's there; either way, he’s burning up all over and _it feels. Goddamn. Incredible._ Jason does something with his tongue that makes Dick’s spine snap forward to attention, breath shuddering again as his legs lock tighter around the other’s neck.

“Mhm…” Jason mumbles distracted, licking a wide sensual strip along the shaft of his cock as Dick bites down the beginnings of a whine, “I just.. Lemme…” Jay crooks his fingers forward again, and this time he sees _white._ Dick lets out a strangled, warbling sound as he arches his hips into the touch; all thoughts of the festival just seem to become distant, far less important than the man currently fingering him open. He thinks it’d be easier to muffle his sounds if Jason wouldn’t swallow his cockhead and swirl his tongue in a way that chips away at the remnants of Dick's very sanity.

He clenches around thick thrusting fingers, rolling his bottom lip between his teeth as he rides the ever building high up _and up and_ —Dick’s legs spasm over Jason’s shoulders as he crosses them in a vice behind the alpha’s head, _keening urgently, blinking back the wetness blurring his vision, toes curling tightly in his boots and- - ...!_ Jason holds onto his inner thighs tight enough to leave imprints in his wake as Dick's brought to an intense climax. Abruptly his drawn taunt form just _slumps,_ back against the temple’s pillar as though his strings have been cut, chest rising and falling with heaving breaths as Jason pulls back with hazy eyes, licking his lips.

“That’s better.” 

“Wha… What’s better?” He somehow finds the brain space to murmur, even as Jason lets him down on shaky fawn-like legs. Dick’s hands fumble to find purchase on his bunched up trousers, feeling oddly embarrassed now that the moment of passion’s passed. 

Jason tilts up his chin then, stopping him in his tracks, his eyes are dancing. “I'm all cooled off.”  
  
Dick allows himself a moment to lean his cheek into the palm and can’t help thinking, _Ah, I feel warm.  
  
_

☾

  
Their walk back to the festival is a comfortable sort of quiet, Dick’s makeup is absolutely ruined, his hair is mushed and his cheeks are flushed a dark maroon. Jay, _(when had he started calling him that?),_ isn’t much better, with his crinkled half untucked shirt and the way his eyes keep flickering to the half-covered marks he’d left just under Dick’s jawline then away again. 

And Dick can’t even meet the other’s eyes, not without his heart thrumming against his chest— nonetheless during their walk, he sticks so close their arms are brushing. Gathering his nerves, tentatively, ever so tentatively Dick hooks a pinky in Jason’s and watches the momentary surprise swell over the younger man’s face before melting into a bright, boyish smile that makes him look his actual age. Something in Dick’s chest starts to thaw as Jason’s fingers tentatively crawl over his until they’re properly locked together, the ice eases.

(This may not have been the way he wanted to find his white wolf, but, well, it’d be an unfair game if Dick didn’t at least offer up an olive branch, now wouldn’t it?)  
  


☾●☽  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Holy hell this was long, but thanks for reading! Do comment and lemme know your thoughts...! This was a real departure from the norm for me since I usually write canon divergence, and this is actually my first fantasy fic. 
> 
> Fun facts about the au that didn't make it into the fic proper:  
> -Jason actually has three (3) moms including Talia, you can probably guess who they are by all the hints I dropped lol  
> -Dick calls Clark 'Pop' in casual family settings but he hasn't called Bruce 'Dad' in like, ten-ish years  
> -Lex Luther is a disaster omega  
> -Roy and Wally have a Thing™ Garth joins in sometimes.  
> -Yes, Jason has written several angsty sonnets about Dick's eyes alone in the time they were separated, but alas this fic is in Dick's POV  
> -Jason prefers hand to hand combat but if pushed he'll use [dual blades](https://i.pinimg.com/564x/2d/36/89/2d36897d144ab32ecaa399b6265ee402.jpg)—Dick's sword for battle meanwhile is a silver rapier [(perhaps something like this)](https://i.pinimg.com/564x/7b/f5/6c/7bf56c64d924050ac1f2e38e6bb0addc.jpg)  
> -Dick has so many powerful friends in politics it's kind of ridiculous, this man sneezes and makes friends with world leaders. Someone should stop him.  
> -Stephanie is originally from Gotham's slums and one of Tim's only friends, sans Wally and Donna's two cousins who drop by sometimes. (Kon is -redacted-)  
> -Damian is a 'late bloomer' of sorts and still hasn't presented at thirteen. Jay calls him 'brat', Cass calls him 'pup'.  
> -Gotham's patron wolf deity is, in fact, 'Hati' and the League's is 'Skoll'  
> -Dick shifts every third moon cycle and often lines up with his pack's, Jason's shift cycle is Complicated™ with a capital 'C' and a trademark.
> 
> ♥ Do head onto the next chapter for some bonus content about the au :>


	2. Concept Art Stuffs

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I drew wayyyy too much art for this au to *not* include a bonus chapter with outfit concepts and a full version of the title card :P

  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ♥♥♥Thanks again to the wonderful mods for running this exchange♥♥♥

**Author's Note:**

> Happy JayDick exchange, everyone ♥ you're all wonderful!


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